The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe TempersThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The TempersAuthor: William Carlos WilliamsRelease date: April 4, 2010 [eBook #31878]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Meredith Bach, Diane Monico, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TEMPERS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The TempersAuthor: William Carlos WilliamsRelease date: April 4, 2010 [eBook #31878]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Meredith Bach, Diane Monico, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Title: The Tempers
Author: William Carlos Williams
Author: William Carlos Williams
Release date: April 4, 2010 [eBook #31878]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Meredith Bach, Diane Monico, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TEMPERS ***
BYWILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMSLONDONELKIN MATHEWS, CORK STREETM CM XIII
PAGEPeace on Earth7Postlude8First Praise9Homage10The Fool's Song11From "The Birth of Venus," Song12Immortal13Mezzo Forte14An After Song15Crude Lament16The Ordeal17The Death of Franco of Cologne: His Prophecy of Beethoven18Portent21Con Brio22Ad Infinitum23Translations from the Spanish, "El Romancero"24Hic Jacet30Contemporania31To wish Myself Courage32
The Archer is wake!The Swan is flying!Gold against blueAn Arrow is lying.There is hunting in heaven—Sleep safe till to-morrow.The Bears are abroad!The Eagle is screaming!Gold against blueTheir eyes are gleaming!Sleep!Sleep safe till to-morrow.The Sisters lieWith their arms intertwining;Gold against blueTheir hair is shining!The Serpent writhes!Orion is listening!Gold against blueHis sword is glistening!Sleep!There is hunting in heaven—Sleep safe till to-morrow.
The Archer is wake!The Swan is flying!Gold against blueAn Arrow is lying.There is hunting in heaven—Sleep safe till to-morrow.
The Bears are abroad!The Eagle is screaming!Gold against blueTheir eyes are gleaming!Sleep!Sleep safe till to-morrow.
The Sisters lieWith their arms intertwining;Gold against blueTheir hair is shining!The Serpent writhes!Orion is listening!Gold against blueHis sword is glistening!Sleep!There is hunting in heaven—Sleep safe till to-morrow.
Now that I have cooled to youLet there be gold of tarnished masonry,Temples soothed by the sun to ruinThat sleep utterly.Give me hand for the dances,Ripples at Philae, in and out,And lips, my Lesbian,Wall flowers that once were flame.Your hair is my CarthageAnd my arms the bow,And our words arrowsTo shoot the starsWho from that misty seaSwarm to destroy us.But you there beside me—Oh how shall I defy you,Who wound me in the nightWith breasts shiningLike Venus and like Mars?The night that is shouting JasonWhen the loud eaves rattleAs with waves above meBlue at the prow of my desire.
Now that I have cooled to youLet there be gold of tarnished masonry,Temples soothed by the sun to ruinThat sleep utterly.Give me hand for the dances,Ripples at Philae, in and out,And lips, my Lesbian,Wall flowers that once were flame.
Your hair is my CarthageAnd my arms the bow,And our words arrowsTo shoot the starsWho from that misty seaSwarm to destroy us.
But you there beside me—Oh how shall I defy you,Who wound me in the nightWith breasts shiningLike Venus and like Mars?The night that is shouting JasonWhen the loud eaves rattleAs with waves above meBlue at the prow of my desire.
Lady of dusk wood fastnesses,Thou art my Lady.I have known the crisp splintering leaf-tread with thee on before,White, slender through green saplings;I have lain by thee on the grey forest floorBeside thee, my Lady.Lady of rivers strewn with stones,Only thou art my Lady.Where thousand the freshets are crowded like peasants to a fair;Clear skinned, wild from seclusion,They jostle white armed down the tent-bordered thoroughfarePraising my Lady.
Lady of dusk wood fastnesses,Thou art my Lady.I have known the crisp splintering leaf-tread with thee on before,White, slender through green saplings;I have lain by thee on the grey forest floorBeside thee, my Lady.
Lady of rivers strewn with stones,Only thou art my Lady.Where thousand the freshets are crowded like peasants to a fair;Clear skinned, wild from seclusion,They jostle white armed down the tent-bordered thoroughfarePraising my Lady.
Elvira, by love's graceThere goeth before youA clear radianceWhich maketh all vain soulsCandles when noon is.The loud clangour of pretendersMelteth before youLike the roll of carts passing,But you come silentlyAnd homage is given.Now the little by-pathWhich leadeth to loveIs again joyful with its many;And the great highwayFrom loveIs without passers.
Elvira, by love's graceThere goeth before youA clear radianceWhich maketh all vain soulsCandles when noon is.
The loud clangour of pretendersMelteth before youLike the roll of carts passing,But you come silentlyAnd homage is given.
Now the little by-pathWhich leadeth to loveIs again joyful with its many;And the great highwayFrom loveIs without passers.
I tried to put a bird in a cage.O fool that I am!For the bird was Truth.Sing merrily, Truth: I tried to putTruth in a cage!And when I had the bird in the cage,O fool that I am!Why, it broke my pretty cage.Sing merrily, Truth; I tried to putTruth in a cage!And when the bird was flown from the cage,O fool that I am!Why, I had nor bird nor cage.Sing merrily, Truth: I tried to putTruth in a cage!Heigh-ho! Truth in a cage.
I tried to put a bird in a cage.O fool that I am!For the bird was Truth.Sing merrily, Truth: I tried to putTruth in a cage!
And when I had the bird in the cage,O fool that I am!Why, it broke my pretty cage.Sing merrily, Truth; I tried to putTruth in a cage!
And when the bird was flown from the cage,O fool that I am!Why, I had nor bird nor cage.Sing merrily, Truth: I tried to putTruth in a cage!Heigh-ho! Truth in a cage.
Come with us and play!See, we have breasts as women!From your tents by the seaCome play with us: it is forbidden!Come with us and play!Lo, bare, straight legs in the water!By our boats we stay,Then swimming awayCome to us: it is forbidden!Come with us and play!See, we are tall as women!Our eyes are keen:Our hair is bright:Our voices speak outright:We revel in the sea's green!Come play:It is forbidden!
Come with us and play!See, we have breasts as women!From your tents by the seaCome play with us: it is forbidden!
Come with us and play!Lo, bare, straight legs in the water!By our boats we stay,Then swimming awayCome to us: it is forbidden!
Come with us and play!See, we are tall as women!Our eyes are keen:Our hair is bright:Our voices speak outright:We revel in the sea's green!Come play:It is forbidden!
Yes, there is one thing braver than all flowers;Richer than clear gems; wider than the sky;Immortal and unchangeable; whose powersTranscend reason, love and sanity!And thou, beloved, art that godly thing!Marvellous and terrible; in glanceAn injured Juno roused against Heaven's King!And thy name, lovely One, is Ignorance.
Yes, there is one thing braver than all flowers;Richer than clear gems; wider than the sky;Immortal and unchangeable; whose powersTranscend reason, love and sanity!
And thou, beloved, art that godly thing!Marvellous and terrible; in glanceAn injured Juno roused against Heaven's King!And thy name, lovely One, is Ignorance.
Take that, damn you; and that!And here's a roseTo make it right again!God knowsI'm sorry, Grace; but then,It's not my fault if you will be a cat.
Take that, damn you; and that!And here's a roseTo make it right again!God knowsI'm sorry, Grace; but then,It's not my fault if you will be a cat.
So art thou broken in upon me, Apollo,Through a splendour of purple garments—Held by the yellow-haired ClymèneTo clothe the white of thy shoulders—Bare from the day's leaping of horses.This is strange to me, here in the modern twilight.
So art thou broken in upon me, Apollo,Through a splendour of purple garments—Held by the yellow-haired ClymèneTo clothe the white of thy shoulders—Bare from the day's leaping of horses.This is strange to me, here in the modern twilight.
Mother of flames,The men that went ahuntingAre asleep in the snow drifts.You have kept the fire burning!Crooked fingers that pullFuel from among the wet leaves,Mother of flamesYou have kept the fire burning!The young wives have fallen asleepWith wet hair, weeping,Mother of flames!The young men raised the heavy spearsAnd are gone prowling in the darkness.O mother of flames,You who have kept the fire burning!Lo, I am helpless!Would God they had taken me with them!
Mother of flames,The men that went ahuntingAre asleep in the snow drifts.You have kept the fire burning!Crooked fingers that pullFuel from among the wet leaves,Mother of flamesYou have kept the fire burning!The young wives have fallen asleepWith wet hair, weeping,Mother of flames!The young men raised the heavy spearsAnd are gone prowling in the darkness.O mother of flames,You who have kept the fire burning!Lo, I am helpless!Would God they had taken me with them!
O Crimson salamander,Because of love's whimsacred!Swimthe winding flamePredestined to disman himAnd bring our fellow home to us again.Swim in with watery fang,Gnaw out and drownThe fire roots that circle himUntil the Hell-flower dies downAnd he comes home again.Aye, bring him home,O crimson salamander,That I may see he is unchanged with burning—Then have your will with him,O crimson salamander.
O Crimson salamander,Because of love's whimsacred!Swimthe winding flamePredestined to disman himAnd bring our fellow home to us again.
Swim in with watery fang,Gnaw out and drownThe fire roots that circle himUntil the Hell-flower dies downAnd he comes home again.
Aye, bring him home,O crimson salamander,That I may see he is unchanged with burning—Then have your will with him,O crimson salamander.
It is useless, good woman, useless: the spark fails me.God! yet when the might of it all assails meIt seems impossible that I cannot do it.Yet I cannot. They were right, and they all knew itYears ago, but I—never! I have persistedBlindly (they say) and now I am old. I have resistedEverything, but now, now the strife's ended.The fire's out; the old cloak has been mendedFor the last time, the soul peers through its tatters.Put a light by and leave me; nothing more mattersNow; I am done; I am at last well broken!Yet, by God, I'll still leave them a tokenThat they'll swear it was no dead man writ it;A morsel that they'll mark well the day they bit it,That there'll be sand between their gross teeth to crunch yetWhen goodman Gabriel blows his concluding trumpet.Leave me!And now, little black eyes, come you out here!Ah, you've given me a lively, lasting bout, yearAfter year to win you round me darlings!Precious children, little gambollers! "farlings"They might have called you once, "nearlings"I call you now, I, first of all the yearlings,Upon this plain, for I it was that tore youOut of chaos! It was I bore you!Ah, you little children that go playingOver the five-barred gate, and will still be strayingSpite of all that I have ever told youOf counterpoint and cadence which does not hold you—No more than chains will for this or that strange reason,But you're always at some new loving treasonTo be away from me, laughing, mocking,Witlessly, perhaps, but for all that forever knockingAt this stanchion door of your poor father's heart till—oh, wellAt least you've shown that you can grow wellHowever much you evade me faster, faster.But, black eyes, some day you'll get a master,For he will come! He shall, he must come!And when he finishes and the burning dust fromHis wheels settles—what shall men see then?You, you, you, my own lovely children!Aye, all of you, thus with hands togetherPlaying on the hill or there in a tether,Or running free, but all mine! Aye, my very namesakesShall be his proper fame's stakes.And he shall lead you!And he shall meed you!And he shall build you gold palaces!And he shall wine you from clear chalices!For I have seen it! I have seen itWritten where the world-clouds screen itFrom other eyesOver the bronze gates of paradise!
It is useless, good woman, useless: the spark fails me.God! yet when the might of it all assails meIt seems impossible that I cannot do it.Yet I cannot. They were right, and they all knew itYears ago, but I—never! I have persistedBlindly (they say) and now I am old. I have resistedEverything, but now, now the strife's ended.The fire's out; the old cloak has been mendedFor the last time, the soul peers through its tatters.Put a light by and leave me; nothing more mattersNow; I am done; I am at last well broken!Yet, by God, I'll still leave them a tokenThat they'll swear it was no dead man writ it;A morsel that they'll mark well the day they bit it,That there'll be sand between their gross teeth to crunch yetWhen goodman Gabriel blows his concluding trumpet.Leave me!And now, little black eyes, come you out here!Ah, you've given me a lively, lasting bout, yearAfter year to win you round me darlings!Precious children, little gambollers! "farlings"They might have called you once, "nearlings"I call you now, I, first of all the yearlings,Upon this plain, for I it was that tore youOut of chaos! It was I bore you!Ah, you little children that go playingOver the five-barred gate, and will still be strayingSpite of all that I have ever told youOf counterpoint and cadence which does not hold you—No more than chains will for this or that strange reason,But you're always at some new loving treasonTo be away from me, laughing, mocking,Witlessly, perhaps, but for all that forever knockingAt this stanchion door of your poor father's heart till—oh, wellAt least you've shown that you can grow wellHowever much you evade me faster, faster.But, black eyes, some day you'll get a master,For he will come! He shall, he must come!And when he finishes and the burning dust fromHis wheels settles—what shall men see then?You, you, you, my own lovely children!Aye, all of you, thus with hands togetherPlaying on the hill or there in a tether,Or running free, but all mine! Aye, my very namesakesShall be his proper fame's stakes.And he shall lead you!And he shall meed you!And he shall build you gold palaces!And he shall wine you from clear chalices!For I have seen it! I have seen itWritten where the world-clouds screen itFrom other eyesOver the bronze gates of paradise!
Red cradle of the night,In youThe dusky childSleeps fast till his mightShall be piledSinew on sinew.Red cradle of the night,The dusky childSleeping sits upright.Lo howThe winds blow now!He pillows back;The winds are again mild.When he stretches his arms out,Red cradle of the night,The alarms shoutFrom bare tree to tree,WildIn afright!Mighty shall he be,Red cradle of the night,The dusky child!!
Red cradle of the night,In youThe dusky childSleeps fast till his mightShall be piledSinew on sinew.
Red cradle of the night,The dusky childSleeping sits upright.Lo howThe winds blow now!He pillows back;The winds are again mild.
When he stretches his arms out,Red cradle of the night,The alarms shoutFrom bare tree to tree,WildIn afright!Mighty shall he be,Red cradle of the night,The dusky child!!
Miserly, is the best description of that poor foolWho holds Lancelot to have been a morose fellow,Dolefully brooding over the events which had naturally to followThe high time of his deed with Guinevere.He has a sick historical sight, if I judge rightly,To believe any such thing as that ever occurred.But, by the god of blood, what else is it that has deterredUs all from an out and out defiance of fearBut this same perdamnable miserliness,Which cries about our necks how we shall have less and lessThan we have now if we spend too wantonly?Bah, this sort of slither is below contempt!In the same vein we should have apple trees exemptFrom bearing anything but pink blossoms all the year,Fixed permanent lest their bellies wax unseemly, and the dearInnocent days of them be wasted quite.How can we have less? Have we not the deed?Lancelot thought little, spent his gold and rode to fightMounted, if God was willing, on a good steed.
Miserly, is the best description of that poor foolWho holds Lancelot to have been a morose fellow,Dolefully brooding over the events which had naturally to followThe high time of his deed with Guinevere.He has a sick historical sight, if I judge rightly,To believe any such thing as that ever occurred.But, by the god of blood, what else is it that has deterredUs all from an out and out defiance of fearBut this same perdamnable miserliness,Which cries about our necks how we shall have less and lessThan we have now if we spend too wantonly?
Bah, this sort of slither is below contempt!
In the same vein we should have apple trees exemptFrom bearing anything but pink blossoms all the year,Fixed permanent lest their bellies wax unseemly, and the dearInnocent days of them be wasted quite.
How can we have less? Have we not the deed?
Lancelot thought little, spent his gold and rode to fightMounted, if God was willing, on a good steed.
Still I bring flowersAlthough you fling them at my feetUntil none staysThat is not struck across with wounds:Flowers and flowersThat you may break them utterlyAs you have always done.Sure happilyI still bring flowers, flowers,Knowing how allAre crumpled in your praiseAnd may not liveTo speak a lesser thing.
Still I bring flowersAlthough you fling them at my feetUntil none staysThat is not struck across with wounds:Flowers and flowersThat you may break them utterlyAs you have always done.
Sure happilyI still bring flowers, flowers,Knowing how allAre crumpled in your praiseAnd may not liveTo speak a lesser thing.
IAlthough you do your best to regard meWith an air seeming offended,Never can you deny, when all's ended,Calm eyes, that youdidregard me.However much you're at pains toOffend me, by which I may suffer,What offence is there can make up forThe great good he finds who attains you?For though with mortal fear you reward me,Until my sorry sense is plenished,Never can you deny, when all's ended,Calm eyes, that you did regard me.Thinking thus to dismay meYou beheld me with disdain,But instead of destroying the gain,In fact with doubled good you paid me.For though you show them how hardlyThey keep off from leniency bended,Never can you deny, when all's ended,Calm eyes, that you did regard me.IIAh, little green eyes,Ah, little eyes of mine,Ah, Heaven be willingThat you think of me somewise.The day of departureYou came full of grievingAnd to see I was leavingThe tears 'gan to start sureWith the heavy tortureOf sorrows unbrightenedWhen you lie down at night andWhen there to you dreams rise,Ah, Heaven be willingThat you think of me somewise.Deep is my assuranceOf you, little green eyes,That in truth you realiseSomething of my duranceEyes of hope's fair assuranceAnd good premonitionBy virtue of whose conditionAll green colours I prize.Ah, Heaven be willingThat you think of me somewise.Would God I might know youTo which quarter bendedAnd why comprehendedWhen sighings overflow you,And if you must go throughSome certain despair,For that you lose his careWho was faithful always.Ah, Heaven be willingThat you think of me these days.Through never a momentI've known how to live lestAll my thoughts but as one pressedYou-ward for their concernment.May God send chastisementIf in this I belie meAnd if it truth beMy own little green eyes.Ah, Heaven be willingThat you think of me somewise.IIIPoplars of the meadow,Fountains of Madrid,Now I am absent from youAll are slandering me.Each of you is tellingHow evil my chance isThe wind among the branches,The fountains in their wellingTo every one tellingYou were happy to see.Now I am absent from youAll are slandering me.With good right I may wonderFor that at my last leavingThe plants with sighs heavingAnd the waters in tears were.That you played double, neverThought I this could be,Now I am absent from youAll are slandering me.There full in your presenceMusic you sought to waken,Later I'm forsakenSince you are ware of my absence.God, wilt Thou give me patienceHere while suffer I ye,Now I am absent from youAll are slandering me.IVThe day draweth nearer,And morrow ends our meeting,Ere they take thee sleepingBe up—away, my treasure!Soft, leave her breasts all unheeded,Far hence though the master still remaineth!For soon uptil our earth regainethThe sun all embraces dividing.N'er grew pleasure all unimpeded,N'er was delight lest passion won,And to the wise man the fit occasionHas not yet refused a full measure:Be up—away, my treasure!If that my love thy bosom inflamethWith honest purpose and just intention,To free me from my soul's contentionGive over joys the day shameth;Who thee lameth he also me lameth,And my good grace builds all in thy good grace;Be up—away! Fear leaveth place,That thou art here, no more unto pleasure,Be up—away, my treasure!Although thou with a sleep art wresting,'Tis rightful thou bringst it close,That of the favour one meeting showsAn hundred may hence be attesting.'Tis fitting too thou shouldst be mindfulThat the ease which we lose now, in kind, fullMany a promise holds for our leisure;Ere they take thee sleeping;Be up—away, my treasure!
I
Although you do your best to regard meWith an air seeming offended,Never can you deny, when all's ended,Calm eyes, that youdidregard me.
However much you're at pains toOffend me, by which I may suffer,What offence is there can make up forThe great good he finds who attains you?For though with mortal fear you reward me,Until my sorry sense is plenished,Never can you deny, when all's ended,Calm eyes, that you did regard me.
Thinking thus to dismay meYou beheld me with disdain,But instead of destroying the gain,In fact with doubled good you paid me.For though you show them how hardlyThey keep off from leniency bended,Never can you deny, when all's ended,Calm eyes, that you did regard me.
II
Ah, little green eyes,Ah, little eyes of mine,Ah, Heaven be willingThat you think of me somewise.
The day of departureYou came full of grievingAnd to see I was leavingThe tears 'gan to start sureWith the heavy tortureOf sorrows unbrightenedWhen you lie down at night andWhen there to you dreams rise,Ah, Heaven be willingThat you think of me somewise.
Deep is my assuranceOf you, little green eyes,That in truth you realiseSomething of my duranceEyes of hope's fair assuranceAnd good premonitionBy virtue of whose conditionAll green colours I prize.Ah, Heaven be willingThat you think of me somewise.
Would God I might know youTo which quarter bendedAnd why comprehendedWhen sighings overflow you,And if you must go throughSome certain despair,For that you lose his careWho was faithful always.Ah, Heaven be willingThat you think of me these days.
Through never a momentI've known how to live lestAll my thoughts but as one pressedYou-ward for their concernment.May God send chastisementIf in this I belie meAnd if it truth beMy own little green eyes.Ah, Heaven be willingThat you think of me somewise.
III
Poplars of the meadow,Fountains of Madrid,Now I am absent from youAll are slandering me.
Each of you is tellingHow evil my chance isThe wind among the branches,The fountains in their wellingTo every one tellingYou were happy to see.Now I am absent from youAll are slandering me.
With good right I may wonderFor that at my last leavingThe plants with sighs heavingAnd the waters in tears were.That you played double, neverThought I this could be,Now I am absent from youAll are slandering me.
There full in your presenceMusic you sought to waken,Later I'm forsakenSince you are ware of my absence.God, wilt Thou give me patienceHere while suffer I ye,Now I am absent from youAll are slandering me.
IV
The day draweth nearer,And morrow ends our meeting,Ere they take thee sleepingBe up—away, my treasure!
Soft, leave her breasts all unheeded,Far hence though the master still remaineth!For soon uptil our earth regainethThe sun all embraces dividing.N'er grew pleasure all unimpeded,N'er was delight lest passion won,And to the wise man the fit occasionHas not yet refused a full measure:Be up—away, my treasure!
If that my love thy bosom inflamethWith honest purpose and just intention,To free me from my soul's contentionGive over joys the day shameth;Who thee lameth he also me lameth,And my good grace builds all in thy good grace;Be up—away! Fear leaveth place,That thou art here, no more unto pleasure,Be up—away, my treasure!
Although thou with a sleep art wresting,'Tis rightful thou bringst it close,That of the favour one meeting showsAn hundred may hence be attesting.'Tis fitting too thou shouldst be mindfulThat the ease which we lose now, in kind, fullMany a promise holds for our leisure;Ere they take thee sleeping;Be up—away, my treasure!
The coroner's merry little childrenHave such twinkling brown eyes.Their father is not of gay menAnd their mother jocular in no wise,Yet the coroner's merry little childrenLaugh so easily.They laugh because they prosper.Fruit for them is upon all branches.Lo! how they jibe at loss, forKind heaven fills their little paunches!It's the coroner's merry, merry childrenWho laugh so easily.
The coroner's merry little childrenHave such twinkling brown eyes.Their father is not of gay menAnd their mother jocular in no wise,Yet the coroner's merry little childrenLaugh so easily.
They laugh because they prosper.Fruit for them is upon all branches.Lo! how they jibe at loss, forKind heaven fills their little paunches!It's the coroner's merry, merry childrenWho laugh so easily.
The corner of a great rainSteamy with the countryHas fallen upon my garden.I go back and forth nowAnd the little leaves follow meTalking of the great rain,Of branches broken,And the farmer's curses!But I go back and forthIn this corner of a gardenAnd the green shoots follow mePraising the great rain.We are not curst together,The leaves and I,Framing devices, flower devicesAnd other ways of peoplingThe barren country.Truly it was a very great rainThat makes the little leaves follow me.
The corner of a great rainSteamy with the countryHas fallen upon my garden.
I go back and forth nowAnd the little leaves follow meTalking of the great rain,Of branches broken,And the farmer's curses!
But I go back and forthIn this corner of a gardenAnd the green shoots follow mePraising the great rain.
We are not curst together,The leaves and I,Framing devices, flower devicesAnd other ways of peoplingThe barren country.
Truly it was a very great rainThat makes the little leaves follow me.
On the day when youth is no more upon meI will write of the leaves and the moon in a tree top!I will sing then the song, long in the making—When the stress of youth is put away from me.How can I ever be written out as men say?Surely it is merely an interference with the long song—This that I am now doing.But when the spring of it is worn like the old moonAnd the eaten leaves are lace upon the cold earth—Then I will rise up in my great desire—Long at the birth—and sing me the youth-song!
On the day when youth is no more upon meI will write of the leaves and the moon in a tree top!I will sing then the song, long in the making—When the stress of youth is put away from me.
How can I ever be written out as men say?Surely it is merely an interference with the long song—This that I am now doing.
But when the spring of it is worn like the old moonAnd the eaten leaves are lace upon the cold earth—Then I will rise up in my great desire—Long at the birth—and sing me the youth-song!
LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.