Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled,
Outspread and motionless, —
A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly.
Forgetfulness is rain at night,
Or an old house in a forest, — or a child.
Forgetfulness is white, — white as a blasted tree,
And it may stun the sybil into prophecy,
Or bury the Gods.
I can remember much forgetfulness.
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Samite sheeted and processioned whereHer undinal vast belly moonward bends,Laughing the wrapt inflections of our love;Take this Sea, whose diapason knellsOn scrolls of silver snowy sentences,The sceptred terror of whose sessions rendsAs her demeanors motion well or ill,All but the pieties of lovers’ hands.And onward, as bells off San SalvadorSalute the crocus lustres of the…
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Perspective never withers from their eyes;
That blends March with August Antarctic skies:These are but cows that see no other thingThan grass and snow, and their own inner beingThrough the rich halo that they do not troubleEven to cast upon the seasons fleetingThough they should thin and die on last year’s stubble.And they are awkward, ponderous and uncoy . . .While…
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Through the bound cable strands, the arching path
Taut miles of shuttling moonlight syncopateThe whispered rush, telepathy of wires.Up the index of night, granite and steel—Transparent meshes—fleckless the gleaming staves—Sibylline voices flicker, waveringly streamAs though a god were issue of the strings. . . .And through that cordage, threading with its callOne arc synoptic of all tides below—Their labyrinthine mouths of historyPouring reply…
We will make our meek adjustments,
As the wind depositsIn slithered and too ample pockets.For we can still love the world, who findA famished kitten on the step, and knowRecesses for it from the fury of the street,Or warm torn elbow coverts.We will sidestep, and to the final smirkDally the doom of that inevitable thumbThat slowly chafes its puckered index toward…