The Little ReviewVol. IIMAY, 1915No. 3Copyright, 1915, by Margaret C. Anderson
The Little Review
Vol. IIMAY, 1915No. 3
Vol. IIMAY, 1915No. 3
Vol. II
MAY, 1915
No. 3
Copyright, 1915, by Margaret C. Anderson
Mitchell Dawson
You were the flame of a Pompeian lamp,Wavering in the sea-wind,Cosima,And ever to the gale of me you danced,Flickering out of reach....I will return to Sorrento,To the wine-room under the cliff.
You were the flame of a Pompeian lamp,Wavering in the sea-wind,Cosima,And ever to the gale of me you danced,Flickering out of reach....I will return to Sorrento,To the wine-room under the cliff.
You were the flame of a Pompeian lamp,Wavering in the sea-wind,Cosima,And ever to the gale of me you danced,Flickering out of reach....
You were the flame of a Pompeian lamp,
Wavering in the sea-wind,
Cosima,
And ever to the gale of me you danced,
Flickering out of reach....
I will return to Sorrento,To the wine-room under the cliff.
I will return to Sorrento,
To the wine-room under the cliff.
Here by the church doorA shriveled batHas folded his wingsAnd dreams of dead crepuscular delights,Bat loves, bat orgies,Tarantistic flittings through the dark.O fragrant beggar blinking in the sun,I will drop three soldi in your hat.
Here by the church doorA shriveled batHas folded his wingsAnd dreams of dead crepuscular delights,Bat loves, bat orgies,Tarantistic flittings through the dark.O fragrant beggar blinking in the sun,I will drop three soldi in your hat.
Here by the church doorA shriveled batHas folded his wingsAnd dreams of dead crepuscular delights,Bat loves, bat orgies,Tarantistic flittings through the dark.
Here by the church door
A shriveled bat
Has folded his wings
And dreams of dead crepuscular delights,
Bat loves, bat orgies,
Tarantistic flittings through the dark.
O fragrant beggar blinking in the sun,I will drop three soldi in your hat.
O fragrant beggar blinking in the sun,
I will drop three soldi in your hat.
O keen of scent,You who have found me in my slough,Not your beak, but your green eyesHave torn to the center of me.Ah, but I shall not slake them with a tremor.
O keen of scent,You who have found me in my slough,Not your beak, but your green eyesHave torn to the center of me.Ah, but I shall not slake them with a tremor.
O keen of scent,You who have found me in my slough,Not your beak, but your green eyesHave torn to the center of me.Ah, but I shall not slake them with a tremor.
O keen of scent,
You who have found me in my slough,
Not your beak, but your green eyes
Have torn to the center of me.
Ah, but I shall not slake them with a tremor.
In the asylum at TermaggioReside a dozen poets—So many colored balloons bobbing against a black ceiling;Will none of them be caughtBy the arm of a strong wind,Down and outward through the open window?We cannot remove the roof at Termaggio,In the sun our balloons would burst....Perhaps we had better close the window.
In the asylum at TermaggioReside a dozen poets—So many colored balloons bobbing against a black ceiling;Will none of them be caughtBy the arm of a strong wind,Down and outward through the open window?We cannot remove the roof at Termaggio,In the sun our balloons would burst....Perhaps we had better close the window.
In the asylum at TermaggioReside a dozen poets—So many colored balloons bobbing against a black ceiling;Will none of them be caughtBy the arm of a strong wind,Down and outward through the open window?
In the asylum at Termaggio
Reside a dozen poets—
So many colored balloons bobbing against a black ceiling;
Will none of them be caught
By the arm of a strong wind,
Down and outward through the open window?
We cannot remove the roof at Termaggio,In the sun our balloons would burst....
We cannot remove the roof at Termaggio,
In the sun our balloons would burst....
Perhaps we had better close the window.
Perhaps we had better close the window.
Under the cypressesNo nightingales will sing this spring;For I have strewn the groundWith the shards of broken illusions,And I will build of them a citadel of austerityWith towers whence I can search the skyFor a rainbow that is stronger than painted china.Dear nightingales,There are still the saccharine gardens of Verona,Where the moon-moth waves his fragile wings.
Under the cypressesNo nightingales will sing this spring;For I have strewn the groundWith the shards of broken illusions,And I will build of them a citadel of austerityWith towers whence I can search the skyFor a rainbow that is stronger than painted china.Dear nightingales,There are still the saccharine gardens of Verona,Where the moon-moth waves his fragile wings.
Under the cypressesNo nightingales will sing this spring;For I have strewn the groundWith the shards of broken illusions,And I will build of them a citadel of austerityWith towers whence I can search the skyFor a rainbow that is stronger than painted china.
Under the cypresses
No nightingales will sing this spring;
For I have strewn the ground
With the shards of broken illusions,
And I will build of them a citadel of austerity
With towers whence I can search the sky
For a rainbow that is stronger than painted china.
Dear nightingales,There are still the saccharine gardens of Verona,Where the moon-moth waves his fragile wings.
Dear nightingales,
There are still the saccharine gardens of Verona,
Where the moon-moth waves his fragile wings.