They come from the fields flushedcarrying bunches of limp flowersthey plucked on teeming meadowsand moist banks scented of mushrooms.They come from the fields tiredsoftness of flowers in their eyesand moisture of rank sprouting meadows.They stroll back with tired stepslips still soft with the softness of petalsvoices faint with the whisper of woods;and they wander through the darkling streetsfull of stench of bodies and clothes and merchandisefull of the hard hum of iron things;and into their cheeks that the wind had burned and the sunthat kisses burned out on the rustling meadowsinto their cheeks soft with lazy caressescomes sultrycaged breath of panthersfetid, uneasyfury of love sprouting hot in the dust and stenchof walls and clothes and merchandise,pent in the stridence of the twilight streets.And they look with terror in each other's eyesand part their hot hands stained with grasses and flowerstalksand are afraid of their kisses.
They come from the fields flushedcarrying bunches of limp flowersthey plucked on teeming meadowsand moist banks scented of mushrooms.
They come from the fields tiredsoftness of flowers in their eyesand moisture of rank sprouting meadows.
They stroll back with tired stepslips still soft with the softness of petalsvoices faint with the whisper of woods;and they wander through the darkling streetsfull of stench of bodies and clothes and merchandisefull of the hard hum of iron things;and into their cheeks that the wind had burned and the sunthat kisses burned out on the rustling meadowsinto their cheeks soft with lazy caressescomes sultrycaged breath of panthersfetid, uneasyfury of love sprouting hot in the dust and stenchof walls and clothes and merchandise,pent in the stridence of the twilight streets.
And they look with terror in each other's eyesand part their hot hands stained with grasses and flowerstalksand are afraid of their kisses.
The mists have veiled the far end of the lakethis sullen amber afternoon;our island is quite hidden, and the peakshang wan as clouds above the ruddy haze.Come, give your hand that lies so limp,a tuberose among brown oak-leaves;put your hand in mine and let us leavethis bank where we have lain the day long.In the boat the naked oarsman stands.Let us walk faster, or do you fear to tearthat brocaded dress in apricot and grey?Love, there are silk cushions in the sternmaroon and apple-green,crocus-yellow, crimson, amber-grey.We will lie and listen to the wavesslap soft against the prow, and watch the boyslant his brown body to the long oar-stroke.But, love, we are more beautiful than he.We have forgotten the grey sick yearning nightsbrushed off the old cobwebs of desire;we stand strongimmortal as the slender brown boy who waitsto row our boat to the island.But love how your steps drag.And what is this bundle of worn brocades I pressso passionately to me? Old rags of the past,snippings of Helen's dress, of Melisande's,scarfs of old paramours rotted in the graveages and ages since.No lakethe ink yawns at me from the writing table.
The mists have veiled the far end of the lakethis sullen amber afternoon;our island is quite hidden, and the peakshang wan as clouds above the ruddy haze.
Come, give your hand that lies so limp,a tuberose among brown oak-leaves;put your hand in mine and let us leavethis bank where we have lain the day long.
In the boat the naked oarsman stands.Let us walk faster, or do you fear to tearthat brocaded dress in apricot and grey?Love, there are silk cushions in the sternmaroon and apple-green,crocus-yellow, crimson, amber-grey.
We will lie and listen to the wavesslap soft against the prow, and watch the boyslant his brown body to the long oar-stroke.
But, love, we are more beautiful than he.We have forgotten the grey sick yearning nightsbrushed off the old cobwebs of desire;we stand strongimmortal as the slender brown boy who waitsto row our boat to the island.
But love how your steps drag.
And what is this bundle of worn brocades I pressso passionately to me? Old rags of the past,snippings of Helen's dress, of Melisande's,scarfs of old paramours rotted in the graveages and ages since.
No lakethe ink yawns at me from the writing table.
Far away where the tall grey houses fadeA lamp blooms dully through the dusk,Through the effacing dusk that gently veilsThe traceried balconies and the wreathsCarved above the shuttered windowsOf forgotten houses.Behind one of the crumbled garden wallsA pale woman sits in drooping blackAnd stares with uncomprehending eyesAt the thorny angled twigs that boreYears ago in the moon-spun duskOne scarlet rose.In an old high room where the shadows troopOn tiptoe across the creaking boardsA shrivelled man covers endless sheetsRounding out in his flourishing handSentence after sentence loudWith dead kings' names.Looking out at the vast grey violet duskA pale boy sits in a window, a bookWide open on his knees, and fearsWith cold choked fear the thronging livesThat lurk in the shadows and fill the duskWith menacing steps.Far away the gaslamp glows dull goldA vague tulip in the misty night.The clattering drone of a distant tramGrows loud and fades with a hum of wiresLeaving the street breathless with silence, chillAnd the listening houses.Bordeaux
Far away where the tall grey houses fadeA lamp blooms dully through the dusk,Through the effacing dusk that gently veilsThe traceried balconies and the wreathsCarved above the shuttered windowsOf forgotten houses.
Behind one of the crumbled garden wallsA pale woman sits in drooping blackAnd stares with uncomprehending eyesAt the thorny angled twigs that boreYears ago in the moon-spun duskOne scarlet rose.
In an old high room where the shadows troopOn tiptoe across the creaking boardsA shrivelled man covers endless sheetsRounding out in his flourishing handSentence after sentence loudWith dead kings' names.
Looking out at the vast grey violet duskA pale boy sits in a window, a bookWide open on his knees, and fearsWith cold choked fear the thronging livesThat lurk in the shadows and fill the duskWith menacing steps.
Far away the gaslamp glows dull goldA vague tulip in the misty night.The clattering drone of a distant tramGrows loud and fades with a hum of wiresLeaving the street breathless with silence, chillAnd the listening houses.
Bordeaux
O douce Sainte Genevièveramène moi a ta ville, Paris.In the smoke of morning the bridgesare dusted with orangy sunshine.Bending their black smokestacks far backmuddling themselves in their spiralling smokethe tugboats pass under the bridgesand behind themstatelygliding smooth like cloudsthe barges comeblack bargeswith blunt prows spurning the water gentlygently rebuffing the opulent waveletsof opal and topaz and sapphire,barges casually come from far townstowards far towns unhurryingly bound.The tugboats shrieks and shrieks againcalling beyond the next bend and away.In the smoke of morning the bridgesare dusted with orangy sunshine.O douce Sainte Genevièveramène moi a ta ville, Paris.Big hairy-hoofed horses are drawingcarts loaded with flour-sacks,white flour-sacks, bluishin the ruddy flush of the morning streets.On one cart two boys perchwrestling and their arms and facesglow ruddy against the white flour-sacksas the sun against the flour-white sky.O douce Sainte Genevièveramène moi a ta ville, Paris.Under the arcadeloud as castanettes with stepsof little women hurrying to workan old hag who has a mole on her chinthat is tufted with long white hairssells incense-sticks, and the trail of their strangeness lingersin the many-scented streetsamong the smells of markets and peachesand the must of old books from the quaysand the warmth of early-roasting coffee.The old hag's incense has smotheredthe timid scent of wild strawberriesand triumphantly mingled with the strong reek from the riverof green slime along stonework of docksand the pitch-caulked decks of barges,barges casually come from far townstowards far towns unhurryingly bound.O douce Sainte Genevièveramène moi a ta ville, Paris.
O douce Sainte Genevièveramène moi a ta ville, Paris.
In the smoke of morning the bridgesare dusted with orangy sunshine.
Bending their black smokestacks far backmuddling themselves in their spiralling smokethe tugboats pass under the bridgesand behind themstatelygliding smooth like cloudsthe barges comeblack bargeswith blunt prows spurning the water gentlygently rebuffing the opulent waveletsof opal and topaz and sapphire,barges casually come from far townstowards far towns unhurryingly bound.
The tugboats shrieks and shrieks againcalling beyond the next bend and away.In the smoke of morning the bridgesare dusted with orangy sunshine.
O douce Sainte Genevièveramène moi a ta ville, Paris.
Big hairy-hoofed horses are drawingcarts loaded with flour-sacks,white flour-sacks, bluishin the ruddy flush of the morning streets.
On one cart two boys perchwrestling and their arms and facesglow ruddy against the white flour-sacksas the sun against the flour-white sky.
O douce Sainte Genevièveramène moi a ta ville, Paris.
Under the arcadeloud as castanettes with stepsof little women hurrying to workan old hag who has a mole on her chinthat is tufted with long white hairssells incense-sticks, and the trail of their strangeness lingersin the many-scented streetsamong the smells of markets and peachesand the must of old books from the quaysand the warmth of early-roasting coffee.
The old hag's incense has smotheredthe timid scent of wild strawberriesand triumphantly mingled with the strong reek from the riverof green slime along stonework of docksand the pitch-caulked decks of barges,barges casually come from far townstowards far towns unhurryingly bound.
O douce Sainte Genevièveramène moi a ta ville, Paris.
And now when I think of youI see you on your piano-stoolfinger the ineffectual bright keysand even in the pinkish parlor glowyour eyes sea-grey are very wideas if they carried the reflectionof mocking black pinebranchesand unclimbed red-purple mountains mist-tatteredunder a violet-gleaming evening.But chirruping of marriageable girlsvoices of eager, wise virgins,no lamp unlit every wick well trimmed,fill the pinkish parlor chairs,bobbing hats and shrill tinkling teacupsin circle after circle about youso that I can no longer see your eyes.Shall I tear down the pinkish curtainssmash the imitation ivory keyboardthat you may pluck with bare fingers on the strings?I sit cramped in my chair.Futility tumbles everlastinglylike great flabby snowflakes about me.Were they in your eyes, or minethe tattered mists about the mountainsand the pitiless grey sea?1919
And now when I think of youI see you on your piano-stoolfinger the ineffectual bright keysand even in the pinkish parlor glowyour eyes sea-grey are very wideas if they carried the reflectionof mocking black pinebranchesand unclimbed red-purple mountains mist-tatteredunder a violet-gleaming evening.
But chirruping of marriageable girlsvoices of eager, wise virgins,no lamp unlit every wick well trimmed,fill the pinkish parlor chairs,bobbing hats and shrill tinkling teacupsin circle after circle about youso that I can no longer see your eyes.
Shall I tear down the pinkish curtainssmash the imitation ivory keyboardthat you may pluck with bare fingers on the strings?
I sit cramped in my chair.Futility tumbles everlastinglylike great flabby snowflakes about me.
Were they in your eyes, or minethe tattered mists about the mountainsand the pitiless grey sea?
1919
Grey riverbanks in the duskMelting away into mistA hard breeze sharp off the seaThe ship's screws lunge and throbAnd the voices of sailors singing.O I have come wanderingOut of the dust of many landsEars by all tongues jangledFeet worn by all arduous ways—O the voices of sailors singing.What nostalgia of seaAnd free new-scented spacesdreams of towns vermillion-gateMust be in their blood as in mineThat the sailors long so in singing.Churned water marbled asternGrey riverbanks in the duskMelting away into mistAnd a shrill wind hard off the sea.O the voices of sailors singing.
Grey riverbanks in the duskMelting away into mistA hard breeze sharp off the seaThe ship's screws lunge and throbAnd the voices of sailors singing.
O I have come wanderingOut of the dust of many landsEars by all tongues jangledFeet worn by all arduous ways—O the voices of sailors singing.
What nostalgia of seaAnd free new-scented spacesdreams of towns vermillion-gateMust be in their blood as in mineThat the sailors long so in singing.
Churned water marbled asternGrey riverbanks in the duskMelting away into mistAnd a shrill wind hard off the sea.O the voices of sailors singing.
Padding lunge of a camel's strideturning the sharp purple flints. A man sings:
Padding lunge of a camel's strideturning the sharp purple flints. A man sings:
Breast deep in the dawna queen of the east;the woolen folds of her robehang white and straightas the hard marble columnsof the temple of Jove.A thousand daysthe pebbles have scuttledunder the great pads of my camels.A thousands dayslike bite of sour appleshave been bitter with desire in my mouth.A thousand daysof cramped legs fleckedwith green slobber of dromedaries.At the crest of the roadthat transfixes the sunshe awaitsme lean with desirewith muscles tightenedby these thousand dayspallid with dustsinewynaked before her.
Breast deep in the dawna queen of the east;the woolen folds of her robehang white and straightas the hard marble columnsof the temple of Jove.
A thousand daysthe pebbles have scuttledunder the great pads of my camels.
A thousands dayslike bite of sour appleshave been bitter with desire in my mouth.
A thousand daysof cramped legs fleckedwith green slobber of dromedaries.
At the crest of the roadthat transfixes the sunshe awaitsme lean with desirewith muscles tightenedby these thousand dayspallid with dustsinewynaked before her.
Padding lunge of a camel's strideover the flint-strewn hills. A man sings:
Padding lunge of a camel's strideover the flint-strewn hills. A man sings:
I have heard men sing songsof how in scarlet poolsin the west in purpurate mistthat bursts from the sun troddenlike a grape under the feet of darknessa woman with great breaststhighs white like wintry mountainsbathes her nakedness.I have lain biting my cheeksmany nights with ears murmurouswith the songs of these strange men.My arms have stung as if burnedby the touch of red ants with anguishto circle strokinglyher bulging smooth body.My blood has soured to gall.The ten toes of my feet are hardas buzzards' claws from the stonesof roads, from clamberingcold rockfaces of hills.For uncountable days' journeysjouncing on the humps of camelsiron horizons have swayedlike the rail of a ship at seamountains have tossed like wineshaken hard in a wine cup.I have heard men sing songsof the scarlet pools of the sunset.
I have heard men sing songsof how in scarlet poolsin the west in purpurate mistthat bursts from the sun troddenlike a grape under the feet of darknessa woman with great breaststhighs white like wintry mountainsbathes her nakedness.
I have lain biting my cheeksmany nights with ears murmurouswith the songs of these strange men.My arms have stung as if burnedby the touch of red ants with anguishto circle strokinglyher bulging smooth body.My blood has soured to gall.The ten toes of my feet are hardas buzzards' claws from the stonesof roads, from clamberingcold rockfaces of hills.For uncountable days' journeysjouncing on the humps of camelsiron horizons have swayedlike the rail of a ship at seamountains have tossed like wineshaken hard in a wine cup.
I have heard men sing songsof the scarlet pools of the sunset.
Two men, bundled pyramids of brownabreast, bow to the long slouchof their slowstriding camels.Shrilly the yellow man sings:
Two men, bundled pyramids of brownabreast, bow to the long slouchof their slowstriding camels.Shrilly the yellow man sings:
In the courts of Hangreen fowls with carmine tailspeck at the yellow graincourt ladies scatterwith tiny ivory hands,the tails of the fowlsdroop with multiple eleganceover the wan blue stonesas the hands of courtladiesdroop on the goldstiffened silkof their angular flower-embroidered dresses.In the courts of Hanlittle hairy dogsare taught to bark twiceat the mention of the name of Confucius.The twittering of the womenthat hop like silly birdsthrough the courts of Hanbecame sharp like little pinsin my ears, their hands in my handsrigid like small ivory scoopsto scoop up mustard withwhen I had heard the songsof the western pools where the great queenis throned on a purple thronein whose vast encompassing armsall bitter twigs of desireburst into scarlet bloom.
In the courts of Hangreen fowls with carmine tailspeck at the yellow graincourt ladies scatterwith tiny ivory hands,the tails of the fowlsdroop with multiple eleganceover the wan blue stonesas the hands of courtladiesdroop on the goldstiffened silkof their angular flower-embroidered dresses.
In the courts of Hanlittle hairy dogsare taught to bark twiceat the mention of the name of Confucius.
The twittering of the womenthat hop like silly birdsthrough the courts of Hanbecame sharp like little pinsin my ears, their hands in my handsrigid like small ivory scoopsto scoop up mustard withwhen I had heard the songsof the western pools where the great queenis throned on a purple thronein whose vast encompassing armsall bitter twigs of desireburst into scarlet bloom.
Padding lunge of the camel's strideover flint-strewn hills. The brown man sings:
Padding lunge of the camel's strideover flint-strewn hills. The brown man sings:
On the house-encumbered hillsof great marble Romeno man has ever counted the columnsno man has ever counted the statuesno man has ever counted the lawssharply inscribed in plain writingon tablets of green bronze.At brightly lit tablesin a great brick basilicaseven hundred literate slavescopy on rolls of thin parchmentadorned by seals and purple bowsthe taut philosophical epigramsannounced by the emperor each morningwhile taking his bath.A day of rain and roaring guttersthe wine-reeking words of a drunken manwho clenched about me hard-muscled armsand whispered with moist lips against my earfilled me with smell and taste of spiceswith harsh panting need to seek out the greatcalm implacable queen of the eastwho erect against sunrise holds in the foldsof her woolen robe all knowledge of delightagainst whose hard white flesh my fleshwill sear to cinders in a last sheer flame.Among the house-encumbered hillsof great marble RomeI could no longer read the lawsinscribed on tablets of green bronze.The maxims of the emperor's philosophywere croaking of toads in my ears.A day of rain and roaring guttersthe wine-reeking words of a drunken man:... breast deep in the dawna queen of the east.
On the house-encumbered hillsof great marble Romeno man has ever counted the columnsno man has ever counted the statuesno man has ever counted the lawssharply inscribed in plain writingon tablets of green bronze.
At brightly lit tablesin a great brick basilicaseven hundred literate slavescopy on rolls of thin parchmentadorned by seals and purple bowsthe taut philosophical epigramsannounced by the emperor each morningwhile taking his bath.
A day of rain and roaring guttersthe wine-reeking words of a drunken manwho clenched about me hard-muscled armsand whispered with moist lips against my earfilled me with smell and taste of spiceswith harsh panting need to seek out the greatcalm implacable queen of the eastwho erect against sunrise holds in the foldsof her woolen robe all knowledge of delightagainst whose hard white flesh my fleshwill sear to cinders in a last sheer flame.
Among the house-encumbered hillsof great marble RomeI could no longer read the lawsinscribed on tablets of green bronze.The maxims of the emperor's philosophywere croaking of toads in my ears.A day of rain and roaring guttersthe wine-reeking words of a drunken man:... breast deep in the dawna queen of the east.
The camels growl and stretch out their necks,their slack lips jiggle as they trottowards a water hole in a pebbly torrent bed.The riders pile dry twigs for a fireand gird up their long gowns to warmat the flame their lean galled legs.Says the yellow man:
The camels growl and stretch out their necks,their slack lips jiggle as they trottowards a water hole in a pebbly torrent bed.
The riders pile dry twigs for a fireand gird up their long gowns to warmat the flame their lean galled legs.
Says the yellow man:
You have seen her in the west?
You have seen her in the west?
Says the brown man:
Says the brown man:
Hills and valleysstony roads.In the townsthe bright eyes of womenlooking out from lattices.Camps in the desertwhere men passed the time of daywhere were embers of firesand greenish piles of camel-dung.You have seen her in the east?
Hills and valleysstony roads.In the townsthe bright eyes of womenlooking out from lattices.Camps in the desertwhere men passed the time of daywhere were embers of firesand greenish piles of camel-dung.
You have seen her in the east?
Says the yellow man:
Says the yellow man:
Only red mountains and bare plains,the blue smoke of villages at evening,brown girls bathingalong banks of streams.I have slept with no womanonly my dream.
Only red mountains and bare plains,the blue smoke of villages at evening,brown girls bathingalong banks of streams.
I have slept with no womanonly my dream.
Says the brown man:
Says the brown man:
I have looked in no woman's eyesonly stared along eastward roads.
I have looked in no woman's eyesonly stared along eastward roads.
They eat out of copper bowls beside the fire in silence.They loose the hobbles from the knees of their camelsand shout as they jerk to their feet.The yellow man rides west.The brown man rides east.Their songs trail among the split rocks of the desert.Sings the yellow man:
They eat out of copper bowls beside the fire in silence.They loose the hobbles from the knees of their camelsand shout as they jerk to their feet.The yellow man rides west.The brown man rides east.
Their songs trail among the split rocks of the desert.
Sings the yellow man:
I have heard men sing songsof how in the scarlet poolsthat spurt from the sun troddenlike a grape under the feet of darknessa woman with great breastsbathes her nakedness.
I have heard men sing songsof how in the scarlet poolsthat spurt from the sun troddenlike a grape under the feet of darknessa woman with great breastsbathes her nakedness.
Sings the brown man:
Sings the brown man:
After a thousand daysof cramped legs fleckedwith green slobber of dromedariesshe awaitsme lean with desirepallid with dustsinewynaked before her.
After a thousand daysof cramped legs fleckedwith green slobber of dromedariesshe awaitsme lean with desirepallid with dustsinewynaked before her.
Their songs fade in the empty desert.
Their songs fade in the empty desert.
There was a king in China.He sat in a garden under a moon of goldwhile a black slave scratched his backwith a back-scratcher of emerald.Beyond the tulip bedwhere the tulips were stiff goblets of fiery winestood the poets in a row.One sang the intricate patterns of snowflakesOne sang the henna-tipped breasts of girls dancingand of yellow limbs rubbed with attar.One sang red bows of Tartar horsemenand whine of arrows and blood-clots on new spearshaftsThe others sang of wine and dragons coiled in purple bowls,and one, in a droning voicerecited the maxims of Lao Tse.(Far off at the walls of the citygroaning of drums and a clank of massed spearmen.Gongs in the temples.)The king sat under a moon of goldwhile a black slave scratched his backwith a back-scratcher of emerald.The long gold nails of his left handtwined about a red tulip blotched with black,a tulip shaped like a dragon's mouthor the flames bellying about a pagoda of sandalwood.The long gold nails of his right handwere held together at the tipsin an attitude of discernment:to award the tulip to the poetof the poets that stood in a row.(Gongs in the temples.Men with hairy armsclimbing on the walls of the city.They have red bows slung on their backs;their hands grip new spearshafts.)The guard of the tomb of the king's great grandfatherstood with two swords under the moon of gold.With one sword he very carefullyslit the base of his large bellyand inserted the other and fell upon itand sprawled beside the king's footstool.His blood sprinkled the tulipsand the poets in a row.(The gongs are quiet in the temples.Men with hairy armsscattering with taut bows through the city;there is blood on new spearshafts.)The long gold nails of the king's right handwere held together at the tipsin an attitude of discernment.The geometrical glitter of snowflakes,the pointed breasts of yellow girlscrimson with henna,the swirl of river-eddies about a bargewhere men sit drinking,the eternal dragon of magnificence....Beyond the tulip bedstood the poets in a row.The garden full of spearshafts and shoutingand the whine of arrows and the red bows of Tartarsand trampling of the sharp hoofs of war-horses.Under the golden moonthe men with hairy armsstruck off the heads of the tulips in the tulip-bedand of the poets in a row.The king lifted the hand that held the flaming dragon-flower.Him of the snowflakes, he said.On a new white spearshaftthe men with hairy armsspitted the king and the black slavewho scratched his back with a back-scratcher of emerald.There was a king in China.
There was a king in China.
He sat in a garden under a moon of goldwhile a black slave scratched his backwith a back-scratcher of emerald.Beyond the tulip bedwhere the tulips were stiff goblets of fiery winestood the poets in a row.
One sang the intricate patterns of snowflakesOne sang the henna-tipped breasts of girls dancingand of yellow limbs rubbed with attar.One sang red bows of Tartar horsemenand whine of arrows and blood-clots on new spearshaftsThe others sang of wine and dragons coiled in purple bowls,and one, in a droning voicerecited the maxims of Lao Tse.
(Far off at the walls of the citygroaning of drums and a clank of massed spearmen.Gongs in the temples.)
The king sat under a moon of goldwhile a black slave scratched his backwith a back-scratcher of emerald.The long gold nails of his left handtwined about a red tulip blotched with black,a tulip shaped like a dragon's mouthor the flames bellying about a pagoda of sandalwood.The long gold nails of his right handwere held together at the tipsin an attitude of discernment:to award the tulip to the poetof the poets that stood in a row.
(Gongs in the temples.Men with hairy armsclimbing on the walls of the city.They have red bows slung on their backs;their hands grip new spearshafts.)
The guard of the tomb of the king's great grandfatherstood with two swords under the moon of gold.With one sword he very carefullyslit the base of his large bellyand inserted the other and fell upon itand sprawled beside the king's footstool.His blood sprinkled the tulipsand the poets in a row.
(The gongs are quiet in the temples.Men with hairy armsscattering with taut bows through the city;there is blood on new spearshafts.)
The long gold nails of the king's right handwere held together at the tipsin an attitude of discernment.The geometrical glitter of snowflakes,the pointed breasts of yellow girlscrimson with henna,the swirl of river-eddies about a bargewhere men sit drinking,the eternal dragon of magnificence....Beyond the tulip bedstood the poets in a row.
The garden full of spearshafts and shoutingand the whine of arrows and the red bows of Tartarsand trampling of the sharp hoofs of war-horses.Under the golden moonthe men with hairy armsstruck off the heads of the tulips in the tulip-bedand of the poets in a row.
The king lifted the hand that held the flaming dragon-flower.
Him of the snowflakes, he said.On a new white spearshaftthe men with hairy armsspitted the king and the black slavewho scratched his back with a back-scratcher of emerald.
There was a king in China.
Says the man from Weehawken to the man from Sioux Cityas they jolt cheek by jowl on the bus up Broadway:—That's her name, Olive Thomas, on the red skysign,died of coke or somethin'way over there in Paris.Too much money. Awfulimmoral the lives them film stars lead.The eye of the man from Sioux City glintsin the eye of the man from Weehawken.Awful ... lives out of sky-signs and lust;curtains of pink silk fluffy troubling the skinrooms all prinkly with chandeliers,bed cream-color with pink silk tasslescreased by the slender press of thighs.Her eyebrows are blackher lips rubbed scarletbreasts firm as peachesgold curls gold against her cheeks.She deadall of her dead way over there in Paris.O golden Aphrodite.The eye of the man from Weehawken slantsaway from the eye of the man from Sioux City.They stare at the unquiet gold dripping sky-signs.
Says the man from Weehawken to the man from Sioux Cityas they jolt cheek by jowl on the bus up Broadway:—That's her name, Olive Thomas, on the red skysign,died of coke or somethin'way over there in Paris.Too much money. Awfulimmoral the lives them film stars lead.
The eye of the man from Sioux City glintsin the eye of the man from Weehawken.Awful ... lives out of sky-signs and lust;curtains of pink silk fluffy troubling the skinrooms all prinkly with chandeliers,bed cream-color with pink silk tasslescreased by the slender press of thighs.Her eyebrows are blackher lips rubbed scarletbreasts firm as peachesgold curls gold against her cheeks.She deadall of her dead way over there in Paris.
O golden Aphrodite.
The eye of the man from Weehawken slantsaway from the eye of the man from Sioux City.They stare at the unquiet gold dripping sky-signs.
Again they are plowing the field by the river;in the air exultant a smell of wild garliccrushed out by the shining steel in the furrowthat opens softly behind the heavy-paced horses,dark moist noisy with fluttering of sparrows;and their chirping and the clink of the harnesschimes like bells;and the plowman walks at one sidewith sliding steps, his body thrown back from the waist.O the sudden sideways lift of his back and his armsas he swings the plow from the furrow.And behind the river sheening blueand the white beach and the sails of schooners,and hoarsely laughing the black crowswheel and glint. Ha! Haha!Other springs you answered their laughingand shouted at them across the fallow landsthat smelt of wild garlic and pinewoods and earth.This year the crows flap cawing overhead Ha! Haha!and the plow-harness clinksand the pines echo the moaning shore.No one laughs back at the laughing crows.No one shouts from the edge of the new-plowed field.Sandy Point
Again they are plowing the field by the river;in the air exultant a smell of wild garliccrushed out by the shining steel in the furrowthat opens softly behind the heavy-paced horses,dark moist noisy with fluttering of sparrows;and their chirping and the clink of the harnesschimes like bells;and the plowman walks at one sidewith sliding steps, his body thrown back from the waist.O the sudden sideways lift of his back and his armsas he swings the plow from the furrow.
And behind the river sheening blueand the white beach and the sails of schooners,and hoarsely laughing the black crowswheel and glint. Ha! Haha!
Other springs you answered their laughingand shouted at them across the fallow landsthat smelt of wild garlic and pinewoods and earth.
This year the crows flap cawing overhead Ha! Haha!and the plow-harness clinksand the pines echo the moaning shore.
No one laughs back at the laughing crows.No one shouts from the edge of the new-plowed field.
Sandy Point
The full moon soars above the misty streetfilling the air with a shimmer of silver.Roofs and chimney-pots cut silhouettesof dark against the milk-washed sky!O moon fast waning!Seems only a night ago you hunga shallow cup of topaz-colored glassthat tilted towards my feverish dry lipsbrimful of promise in the flaming west:O moon fast waning!And each night fuller and colder, moon,the silver has welled up within you; still II have not drunk, only the salt tideof parching desires has welled up within me:only you have attained, waning moon.The moon soars white above the stony street,wan with fulfilment. O will the tideof yearning ebb with the moon's ebbleaving me cool darkness and peacewith the moon's waning?Madrid
The full moon soars above the misty streetfilling the air with a shimmer of silver.Roofs and chimney-pots cut silhouettesof dark against the milk-washed sky!O moon fast waning!
Seems only a night ago you hunga shallow cup of topaz-colored glassthat tilted towards my feverish dry lipsbrimful of promise in the flaming west:O moon fast waning!
And each night fuller and colder, moon,the silver has welled up within you; still II have not drunk, only the salt tideof parching desires has welled up within me:only you have attained, waning moon.
The moon soars white above the stony street,wan with fulfilment. O will the tideof yearning ebb with the moon's ebbleaving me cool darkness and peacewith the moon's waning?
Madrid
The shrill wind scatters the bloomof the almond treesbut under the bark of the shivering poplarsthe sap risesand on the dark twigs of the planesbuds swell.Out in the countryalong soggy banks of ditchesamong busy sprouting grassthere are dandelions.Under the asphaltunder the clamorous paving-stonesthe earth heaves and stirsand all the blind live thingsexpand and writhe.Only the deadlie still in their graves,stiff, heiratic,only the changeless deadlie without stirring.Spring is not a good timefor the dead.Battery Park
The shrill wind scatters the bloomof the almond treesbut under the bark of the shivering poplarsthe sap risesand on the dark twigs of the planesbuds swell.
Out in the countryalong soggy banks of ditchesamong busy sprouting grassthere are dandelions.Under the asphaltunder the clamorous paving-stonesthe earth heaves and stirsand all the blind live thingsexpand and writhe.
Only the deadlie still in their graves,stiff, heiratic,only the changeless deadlie without stirring.
Spring is not a good timefor the dead.
Battery Park
Buildings shoot rigid perpendicularslatticed with window-gapsinto the slate sky.
Buildings shoot rigid perpendicularslatticed with window-gapsinto the slate sky.
Where the wind comes fromthe ice crumblesabout the edges of green pools;from the leaping of white thighscomes a smooth and fleshly sound,girls grip hands and dancegrey moss grows green under the beatof feet of saffroncrocus-stained.Where the wind comes frompurple windflowers swayon the swelling verges of pools,naked girls grab hands and whirlfling heads backstamp crimson feet.
Where the wind comes fromthe ice crumblesabout the edges of green pools;from the leaping of white thighscomes a smooth and fleshly sound,girls grip hands and dancegrey moss grows green under the beatof feet of saffroncrocus-stained.
Where the wind comes frompurple windflowers swayon the swelling verges of pools,naked girls grab hands and whirlfling heads backstamp crimson feet.
Buildings shoot rigid perpendicularslatticed with window-gapsinto the slate sky.Garment-workers loaf in their overcoats(stare at the gay breasts of pigeonsthat strut and peck in the gutters).Their fingers are bruised tugging needlesthrough fuzzy hot layers of cloth,thumbs roughened twirling waxed thread;they smell of lunchrooms and burnt cloth.The wind goes among themdetaching sweat-smells from underclothesmaking muscles itch under overcoatstweaking legs with inklings of dancetime.Bums on park-benchesspit and look up at the sky.Garment-workers in their overcoatspile back into black gaps of doors.
Buildings shoot rigid perpendicularslatticed with window-gapsinto the slate sky.
Garment-workers loaf in their overcoats(stare at the gay breasts of pigeonsthat strut and peck in the gutters).Their fingers are bruised tugging needlesthrough fuzzy hot layers of cloth,thumbs roughened twirling waxed thread;they smell of lunchrooms and burnt cloth.The wind goes among themdetaching sweat-smells from underclothesmaking muscles itch under overcoatstweaking legs with inklings of dancetime.
Bums on park-benchesspit and look up at the sky.
Garment-workers in their overcoatspile back into black gaps of doors.
Where the wind comes fromscarlet windflowers swayon rippling verges of pools,sound of girls dancingthud of vermillion feet.Madison Square
Where the wind comes fromscarlet windflowers swayon rippling verges of pools,sound of girls dancingthud of vermillion feet.
Madison Square
The stars bend downthrough the dingy platitude of arc-lightsas if they were groping for something among the houses,as if they would touch the gritty pavementcovered with dust and scraps of paper and piles of horse-dungof the wide deserted square.They are all about me;they sear my body.How very cold the stars are touching my body.What do they seekthe fierce ice-flames of the starsin the platitude of arc-lights?Plaza Mayor, Madrid
The stars bend downthrough the dingy platitude of arc-lightsas if they were groping for something among the houses,as if they would touch the gritty pavementcovered with dust and scraps of paper and piles of horse-dungof the wide deserted square.
They are all about me;they sear my body.How very cold the stars are touching my body.What do they seekthe fierce ice-flames of the starsin the platitude of arc-lights?
Plaza Mayor, Madrid
Not willingly have I wronged you O Eros,it is the bitter blood of joyless generationsmaking my fingers loosen suddenlyabout the full glass of purple winefor which my dry lips ache,making me turn aside from the wide arms of loversthat would have slaked the rage of my bodyfor supple arms and burning young flushed facesto wander in solitary streets.A funeral clatters over the glimmering cobbles;they are burying despair!Lank horses whose raw bones show throughthe embroidered black caparisonsand whose heads jerk feeblyunder the tall nodding crests;they are burying despair.A great hearse that trundles crazily alongunder pompous swaying plumesand intricate designs of mud-splashed heraldry;they are burying despair!A coffin obliterated under the huge foldsof a faded velvet palland following clattering over the cobblestoneslurching through mud-puddlesa long train of cabsrain-soaked barouchesold landaus off which the paint has peeledleprous coupés;in their blank windows shines the glintof interminable gaslamps;they are burying despair!Joyously I turn into the wineshopwhere with strumming of tambourinesand staccato cackle of castanetsthey are welcoming the new year,and I look in the eyes of the woman;(are they your wide eyes O Eros?)who sits with wine-dabbled lipsand stained tinsel dress torn openby the brown hands of strong young lovers;(were they your brown hands O Eros?).—Your flesh is hot to my cold handshot to thaw the ice of an old cursenow that with pomp of plumes and strings of ceremonial cabsthey are burying despair.She laughs and points with a skinny forefingerat the flabby yellow breasts that hangover the tarnished tinsel of her dress,and shows me her brown wolf's teeth;and the blood in my temples goes suddenly coldwith bitterness and I knowit was not despair that they buried.New Year's Day——Casa de Bottin
Not willingly have I wronged you O Eros,it is the bitter blood of joyless generationsmaking my fingers loosen suddenlyabout the full glass of purple winefor which my dry lips ache,making me turn aside from the wide arms of loversthat would have slaked the rage of my bodyfor supple arms and burning young flushed facesto wander in solitary streets.
A funeral clatters over the glimmering cobbles;they are burying despair!Lank horses whose raw bones show throughthe embroidered black caparisonsand whose heads jerk feeblyunder the tall nodding crests;they are burying despair.A great hearse that trundles crazily alongunder pompous swaying plumesand intricate designs of mud-splashed heraldry;they are burying despair!A coffin obliterated under the huge foldsof a faded velvet palland following clattering over the cobblestoneslurching through mud-puddlesa long train of cabsrain-soaked barouchesold landaus off which the paint has peeledleprous coupés;in their blank windows shines the glintof interminable gaslamps;they are burying despair!
Joyously I turn into the wineshopwhere with strumming of tambourinesand staccato cackle of castanetsthey are welcoming the new year,and I look in the eyes of the woman;(are they your wide eyes O Eros?)who sits with wine-dabbled lipsand stained tinsel dress torn openby the brown hands of strong young lovers;(were they your brown hands O Eros?).
—Your flesh is hot to my cold handshot to thaw the ice of an old cursenow that with pomp of plumes and strings of ceremonial cabsthey are burying despair.
She laughs and points with a skinny forefingerat the flabby yellow breasts that hangover the tarnished tinsel of her dress,and shows me her brown wolf's teeth;and the blood in my temples goes suddenly coldwith bitterness and I knowit was not despair that they buried.
New Year's Day——Casa de Bottin
The leaves are full grown nowand the lindens are in flower.Horseshoes leave their markon the sun-softened asphalt.Men unloading vegetable cartsalong the steaming market curbbare broad chests pink from sweating;their wet shirts open to the last buttoncling to their ribs and shoulders.The leaves are full grown nowand the lindens are in flower.At night along the riversideglinting watery lightssway upon the lapping waveslike many-colored candles that flicker in the wind.The warm wind smells of pitch from the moored bargessmells of the broad leaves of the treeswilted from the day's long heat;smells of gas from the last taxicab.Sounds of the riverwater rustlingcircumspectly past the piersof bridges that span the glitter with darkof men and women's voicesmany voices mouth to mouthsmoothness of flesh touching flesh,a harsh short sigh blurred into a kiss.The leaves are full grown nowand the lindens are in flower.Quai Malaquais
The leaves are full grown nowand the lindens are in flower.Horseshoes leave their markon the sun-softened asphalt.Men unloading vegetable cartsalong the steaming market curbbare broad chests pink from sweating;their wet shirts open to the last buttoncling to their ribs and shoulders.
The leaves are full grown nowand the lindens are in flower.
At night along the riversideglinting watery lightssway upon the lapping waveslike many-colored candles that flicker in the wind.
The warm wind smells of pitch from the moored bargessmells of the broad leaves of the treeswilted from the day's long heat;smells of gas from the last taxicab.
Sounds of the riverwater rustlingcircumspectly past the piersof bridges that span the glitter with darkof men and women's voicesmany voices mouth to mouthsmoothness of flesh touching flesh,a harsh short sigh blurred into a kiss.
The leaves are full grown nowand the lindens are in flower.
Quai Malaquais
In me somewhere is a grey roommy fathers worked through many lives to build;through the barred distorting windowpanesI see the new moon in the sky.When I was small I sat and drewendless pictures in all colors on the walls;tomorrow the pictures should take lifeI would stalk down their long heroic colonnades.When I was fifteen a red-haired girlwent by the window; a red sunsetthrew her shadow on the stiff grey wallto burn the colors of my pictures dead.Through all these years the walls have writhedwith shadow overlaid upon shadow.I have bruised my fingers on the windowbarsso many lives cemented and made strong.While the bars stand strong, outsidethe great processions of men's lives go past.Their shadows squirm distorted on my wall.Tonight the new moon is in the sky.Stuyvesant Square
In me somewhere is a grey roommy fathers worked through many lives to build;through the barred distorting windowpanesI see the new moon in the sky.
When I was small I sat and drewendless pictures in all colors on the walls;tomorrow the pictures should take lifeI would stalk down their long heroic colonnades.
When I was fifteen a red-haired girlwent by the window; a red sunsetthrew her shadow on the stiff grey wallto burn the colors of my pictures dead.
Through all these years the walls have writhedwith shadow overlaid upon shadow.I have bruised my fingers on the windowbarsso many lives cemented and made strong.
While the bars stand strong, outsidethe great processions of men's lives go past.Their shadows squirm distorted on my wall.
Tonight the new moon is in the sky.
Stuyvesant Square
Three kites against the sunsetflaunt their long-tailed trianglesabove the inquisitive chimney-pots.A pompous ragged minstrelsings beside our dining-tablea very old romantic song:I love the sound of the hunting-hornsdeep in the woods at night.A wind makes dance the fine acacia leavesand flutters the cloths of the tables.The kites tremble and soar.The voice throbs sugared into croaking basebroken with the burden of the too ancient songs.And yet, beyond the flaring sky,beyond the soaring kites,where are no voices of singers,no strummings of guitars,the untarnished songshang like great moths just brokenthrough the dun threads of their cocoons,moist, motionless, limpas flowers on the inaccessible twigsof the yewtree, Ygdrasil,the untarnished songs.Will you put your hand in minepompous street-singer,and start on a quest with me?For men have cut down the woods where the laurel grewto build streets of frame houses,they have dug in the hills after ironand frightened the troll-king away;at night in the woods no hunter puffs out his cheeksto call to the kill on the hunting-horn.Now when the kites flaunt bravelytheir tissue-paper glory in the sunsetwe will walk together down the darkening streetsbeyond these tables and the sunset.We will hear the singing of drunken menand the songs whores singin their doorways at nightand the endless soft crooningof all the mothers,and what words the young men humwhen they walk beside the rivertheir arms hot with caresses,their cheeks pressed against their girls' cheeks.We will lean very closeto the quiet lips of the deadand feel in our worn-out flesh perhapsa flutter of wings as they soar from usthe untarnished songs.But the minstrel sings as the pennies clink:I love the sound of the hunting-hornsdeep in the woods at night.O who will go on a quest with mebeyond all wide seasall mountain passesand climb at last with meamong the imperishable branchesof the yewtree, Ygdrasil,so that all the limp unuttered songsshall spread their great moth-wings and soarabove the craning necks of the chimneysabove the tissue-paper kites and the sunsetabove the diners and their dining-tables,beat upward with strong wing-beats steadilytill they can drink the quenchless honey of the moon.Place du Tertre
Three kites against the sunsetflaunt their long-tailed trianglesabove the inquisitive chimney-pots.
A pompous ragged minstrelsings beside our dining-tablea very old romantic song:
I love the sound of the hunting-hornsdeep in the woods at night.
A wind makes dance the fine acacia leavesand flutters the cloths of the tables.The kites tremble and soar.The voice throbs sugared into croaking basebroken with the burden of the too ancient songs.
And yet, beyond the flaring sky,beyond the soaring kites,where are no voices of singers,no strummings of guitars,the untarnished songshang like great moths just brokenthrough the dun threads of their cocoons,moist, motionless, limpas flowers on the inaccessible twigsof the yewtree, Ygdrasil,the untarnished songs.
Will you put your hand in minepompous street-singer,and start on a quest with me?For men have cut down the woods where the laurel grewto build streets of frame houses,they have dug in the hills after ironand frightened the troll-king away;at night in the woods no hunter puffs out his cheeksto call to the kill on the hunting-horn.
Now when the kites flaunt bravelytheir tissue-paper glory in the sunsetwe will walk together down the darkening streetsbeyond these tables and the sunset.
We will hear the singing of drunken menand the songs whores singin their doorways at nightand the endless soft crooningof all the mothers,and what words the young men humwhen they walk beside the rivertheir arms hot with caresses,their cheeks pressed against their girls' cheeks.
We will lean very closeto the quiet lips of the deadand feel in our worn-out flesh perhapsa flutter of wings as they soar from usthe untarnished songs.
But the minstrel sings as the pennies clink:I love the sound of the hunting-hornsdeep in the woods at night.
O who will go on a quest with mebeyond all wide seasall mountain passesand climb at last with meamong the imperishable branchesof the yewtree, Ygdrasil,so that all the limp unuttered songsshall spread their great moth-wings and soarabove the craning necks of the chimneysabove the tissue-paper kites and the sunsetabove the diners and their dining-tables,beat upward with strong wing-beats steadilytill they can drink the quenchless honey of the moon.
Place du Tertre
Dark on the blue light of the streamthe barges lie anchored under the moon.On icegreen seas of sunsetthe moon skims like a curved white sailbellied by the evening windand bound for some glittering harborthat blue hills circleamong the purple archipelagos of cloud.So, in the quivering bubble of my memoriesthe schooners with peaked sailslean athwart the low dark shore;their sails glow apricot-coloror glint as white as the salt-bitten shells on the beachand are curved at the tip like gulls' wings:their courses are set for impossible oceanswhere on the gold imaginary sandsthey will unload their many-scented freightof very childish dreams.Dark on the blue light of the streamthe barges lie anchored under the moon;the wind brings from them to my earsfaint creaking of rudder-cords, tiny slappingsof waves against their pitch-smeared flanks,to my nose a smell of bales and merchandisethe wet familiar smell of harborsand the old arousing fragrancemaking the muscles ache and the blood seetheand the eyes see the roadsteads and the golden beacheswhere with singing they would furl the sailsof the schooners of childish dreams.On icegreen seas of sunsetthe moon skims like a curved white sail:had I forgotten the fragrance of old dreamsthat the smell from the anchored bargescan so fill my blood with bitternessthat the sight of the scudding moonmakes my eyes tingle with salt tears?In the ship's track on the infertile seanow many childish bodies floatrotting under the white moon.Quai des Grands Augustins
Dark on the blue light of the streamthe barges lie anchored under the moon.
On icegreen seas of sunsetthe moon skims like a curved white sailbellied by the evening windand bound for some glittering harborthat blue hills circleamong the purple archipelagos of cloud.
So, in the quivering bubble of my memoriesthe schooners with peaked sailslean athwart the low dark shore;their sails glow apricot-coloror glint as white as the salt-bitten shells on the beachand are curved at the tip like gulls' wings:their courses are set for impossible oceanswhere on the gold imaginary sandsthey will unload their many-scented freightof very childish dreams.
Dark on the blue light of the streamthe barges lie anchored under the moon;the wind brings from them to my earsfaint creaking of rudder-cords, tiny slappingsof waves against their pitch-smeared flanks,to my nose a smell of bales and merchandisethe wet familiar smell of harborsand the old arousing fragrancemaking the muscles ache and the blood seetheand the eyes see the roadsteads and the golden beacheswhere with singing they would furl the sailsof the schooners of childish dreams.
On icegreen seas of sunsetthe moon skims like a curved white sail:had I forgotten the fragrance of old dreamsthat the smell from the anchored bargescan so fill my blood with bitternessthat the sight of the scudding moonmakes my eyes tingle with salt tears?
In the ship's track on the infertile seanow many childish bodies floatrotting under the white moon.
Quai des Grands Augustins
Thistledown cloudscover the whole skyscurry on the southwest windover the sea and islands;somehow in the sundownthe wind has shaken out plumed seedof thistles milkweed asphodel,raked from off great fields of dandelionstheir ghosts of faded golden springsand carried them in billowing of mistto scurry in moonlightout of the west.They hide the moonthe whole sky is grey with themand the waves.They will fall in rainover country gardenswhere thrushes sing.They will fall in raindown long sparsely lighted streetshiss on silvery windowpanesmoisten the lipsof girls leaning outto stare after the footfalls of young menwho splash through the glimmering puddleswith nonchalant feet.They will slap against the windows of officeswhere men in black suitsshaped like pearsrub their abdomensagainst frazzled edges of ledgers.They will drizzleover new-plowed fieldswet the red cheeks of men harrowingand a smell of garlic and claywill steam from the new-sowed landand sharp-eared young herdsmen will feelin the windy rainlisp of tremulous love-makingsinterlaced soundless kissesimpact of dead springsnuzzling tremulous at lifein the red sundown.Shining spring rainO scud steaming up out of the deep seafull of portents of sundown and islands,beat upon my foreheadbeat upon my face and neckglisten on my outstretched hands,run bright lilac streamsthrough the clogged channels of my braincorrode the clicking cogs the little anglesthe small mistrustful mirrorsscatter the shrill tiny creakingof mustnot darenot cannotspatter the varnish off methat I may stand upmy face to the wet windand feel my bodyand drenched salty palpitant Aprilreborn in my flesh.I would spit the dust out of my mouthburst out of these stiff wire webssupple incautiouslike the crocuses that spurt up too soontheir saffron flamesand die gloriously in late blizzardsand leave no seed.Off Pico
Thistledown cloudscover the whole skyscurry on the southwest windover the sea and islands;somehow in the sundownthe wind has shaken out plumed seedof thistles milkweed asphodel,raked from off great fields of dandelionstheir ghosts of faded golden springsand carried them in billowing of mistto scurry in moonlightout of the west.
They hide the moonthe whole sky is grey with themand the waves.
They will fall in rainover country gardenswhere thrushes sing.
They will fall in raindown long sparsely lighted streetshiss on silvery windowpanesmoisten the lipsof girls leaning outto stare after the footfalls of young menwho splash through the glimmering puddleswith nonchalant feet.
They will slap against the windows of officeswhere men in black suitsshaped like pearsrub their abdomensagainst frazzled edges of ledgers.
They will drizzleover new-plowed fieldswet the red cheeks of men harrowingand a smell of garlic and claywill steam from the new-sowed landand sharp-eared young herdsmen will feelin the windy rainlisp of tremulous love-makingsinterlaced soundless kissesimpact of dead springsnuzzling tremulous at lifein the red sundown.
Shining spring rainO scud steaming up out of the deep seafull of portents of sundown and islands,beat upon my foreheadbeat upon my face and neckglisten on my outstretched hands,run bright lilac streamsthrough the clogged channels of my braincorrode the clicking cogs the little anglesthe small mistrustful mirrorsscatter the shrill tiny creakingof mustnot darenot cannotspatter the varnish off methat I may stand upmy face to the wet windand feel my bodyand drenched salty palpitant Aprilreborn in my flesh.
I would spit the dust out of my mouthburst out of these stiff wire webssupple incautiouslike the crocuses that spurt up too soontheir saffron flamesand die gloriously in late blizzardsand leave no seed.
Off Pico
Out of the unquiet townseep jagged barkingslean broken criesunimaginable silent writhingof muscles taut against stranglingheavy fetters of darkness.On the pool of moonlightclots and festersa great scumof worn-out sound.
Out of the unquiet townseep jagged barkingslean broken criesunimaginable silent writhingof muscles taut against stranglingheavy fetters of darkness.
On the pool of moonlightclots and festersa great scumof worn-out sound.
(Elagabalus, Alexanderlooked too long at the full moon;hot blood drowned themcold rivers drowned them.)
(Elagabalus, Alexanderlooked too long at the full moon;hot blood drowned themcold rivers drowned them.)
Float like pondflowerson the dead face of darknesscold stubs of lustsnames that glimmer ghostlyadrift on the slow tideof old moons waned.
Float like pondflowerson the dead face of darknesscold stubs of lustsnames that glimmer ghostlyadrift on the slow tideof old moons waned.
(Lais of Corinth that Holbein drewdrank the moon in a cup of wine;with the flame of all her lovers' painshe seared a sign on the tombs of the years.)
(Lais of Corinth that Holbein drewdrank the moon in a cup of wine;with the flame of all her lovers' painshe seared a sign on the tombs of the years.)
Out of the voiceless wrestle of the nightflesh rasping harsh on flesha tune on a shrill pipe shimmersup like a rocket blurred in the fogof lives curdled in the moon's glare,staggering up like a rocketinto the steely star-sharpened nightabove the stagnant moon-marshesthe song throbs soaring and dies.
Out of the voiceless wrestle of the nightflesh rasping harsh on flesha tune on a shrill pipe shimmersup like a rocket blurred in the fogof lives curdled in the moon's glare,staggering up like a rocketinto the steely star-sharpened nightabove the stagnant moon-marshesthe song throbs soaring and dies.
(Semiramis, Zenobialay too long in the moon's glare;their yearning grew sere and they diedand the flesh of their empires died.)
(Semiramis, Zenobialay too long in the moon's glare;their yearning grew sere and they diedand the flesh of their empires died.)
On the pool of moonlightclots and festersa great scumof worn-out lives.No sound but the panting unsatiatedbreath that heaves under the huge pallthe livid moon has spread above the housetops.I rest my chin on the window-ledge and wait.There are hands about my throat.
On the pool of moonlightclots and festersa great scumof worn-out lives.
No sound but the panting unsatiatedbreath that heaves under the huge pallthe livid moon has spread above the housetops.I rest my chin on the window-ledge and wait.There are hands about my throat.
Ah Bilkis, Bilkiswhere the jangle of your camel bells?Bilkis when out of Sabalope of your sharp-smelling dromedarieswill bring the unnameable strong wineyou press from the dazzle of the zenithover the shining sand of your desertthe wine you press there in Saba?Bilkis your voice loud above the camel bellswhite sword of dawn to split the fog,Bilkis your small strong hands to tearthe hands from about my throat.Ah Bilkis when out of Saba?Pera Palace
Ah Bilkis, Bilkiswhere the jangle of your camel bells?Bilkis when out of Sabalope of your sharp-smelling dromedarieswill bring the unnameable strong wineyou press from the dazzle of the zenithover the shining sand of your desertthe wine you press there in Saba?Bilkis your voice loud above the camel bellswhite sword of dawn to split the fog,Bilkis your small strong hands to tearthe hands from about my throat.Ah Bilkis when out of Saba?
Pera Palace
Transcribers' note:The original spelling has been retained.One typographical error was changed: Jasdin ——>Jardindu Luxembourg
Transcribers' note:The original spelling has been retained.One typographical error was changed: Jasdin ——>Jardindu Luxembourg