COLOR AND A WOMAN
Cry the names of colorsAnd fail to reproduceThe brightly worried wayIn which they burn ideas,Sweeping hues of intangible bloodInto the conspiring fires of soul:The darkly reticent mannerWith which they embalm emotions,Ending the spontaneous treacheryWith a self-possessed attraction.Chant the names of colorsAnd fascinate the brownCoward, who surrounds himselfWith crystal safeguards known as facts,But likes the dangerous soundsOf unattained realities.Or, scorn this satirical adviceAnd storm the body of a womanWith words as deliberate as wind,Yet heavier, and bearingColors without a label.The substance of her hair—Ethereal stems that continue their questBeyond the warped confines of sight—Shows the darkness of intellectAnswering a miniature sunsetWhose dying light does not quite succumb.The steep reserve of her foreheadHas been kindled by a flat burdenPale as the cry of a child, yet carryingThe hint of trouble found in late afternoon.Her eyes hold emotional evening,With spurts of dawn remaining like anxious relicsKept alive by unsatisfied designsFrom that derided realm where logic dies.Her breast is the color that a north windWould have if it were visible to eyes.Upon her body, color in light and darknessSubdues the ribald ponderousness of lifeAnd brings the filmy, flashing seriousnessDetested by the prostrate toil of mud;Hated in taverns at midnight;Banished from every couch when morningRearranges the ancient jest.
Cry the names of colorsAnd fail to reproduceThe brightly worried wayIn which they burn ideas,Sweeping hues of intangible bloodInto the conspiring fires of soul:The darkly reticent mannerWith which they embalm emotions,Ending the spontaneous treacheryWith a self-possessed attraction.Chant the names of colorsAnd fascinate the brownCoward, who surrounds himselfWith crystal safeguards known as facts,But likes the dangerous soundsOf unattained realities.Or, scorn this satirical adviceAnd storm the body of a womanWith words as deliberate as wind,Yet heavier, and bearingColors without a label.The substance of her hair—Ethereal stems that continue their questBeyond the warped confines of sight—Shows the darkness of intellectAnswering a miniature sunsetWhose dying light does not quite succumb.The steep reserve of her foreheadHas been kindled by a flat burdenPale as the cry of a child, yet carryingThe hint of trouble found in late afternoon.Her eyes hold emotional evening,With spurts of dawn remaining like anxious relicsKept alive by unsatisfied designsFrom that derided realm where logic dies.Her breast is the color that a north windWould have if it were visible to eyes.Upon her body, color in light and darknessSubdues the ribald ponderousness of lifeAnd brings the filmy, flashing seriousnessDetested by the prostrate toil of mud;Hated in taverns at midnight;Banished from every couch when morningRearranges the ancient jest.
Cry the names of colors
And fail to reproduce
The brightly worried way
In which they burn ideas,
Sweeping hues of intangible blood
Into the conspiring fires of soul:
The darkly reticent manner
With which they embalm emotions,
Ending the spontaneous treachery
With a self-possessed attraction.
Chant the names of colors
And fascinate the brown
Coward, who surrounds himself
With crystal safeguards known as facts,
But likes the dangerous sounds
Of unattained realities.
Or, scorn this satirical advice
And storm the body of a woman
With words as deliberate as wind,
Yet heavier, and bearing
Colors without a label.
The substance of her hair—
Ethereal stems that continue their quest
Beyond the warped confines of sight—
Shows the darkness of intellect
Answering a miniature sunset
Whose dying light does not quite succumb.
The steep reserve of her forehead
Has been kindled by a flat burden
Pale as the cry of a child, yet carrying
The hint of trouble found in late afternoon.
Her eyes hold emotional evening,
With spurts of dawn remaining like anxious relics
Kept alive by unsatisfied designs
From that derided realm where logic dies.
Her breast is the color that a north wind
Would have if it were visible to eyes.
Upon her body, color in light and darkness
Subdues the ribald ponderousness of life
And brings the filmy, flashing seriousness
Detested by the prostrate toil of mud;
Hated in taverns at midnight;
Banished from every couch when morning
Rearranges the ancient jest.