with metallic clinkings–
beating color up into it
at a far edge,–beating it, beating it
with rising, triumphant ardor,–
stirring it into warmth,
quickening in it a spreading change,–
bursting wildly against it as
dividing the horizon, a heavy sun
lifts himself–is lifted–
bit by bit above the edge
of things,–runs free at last
out into the open–!lumbering
glorified in full release upward–
songs cease.
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My shoes as I lean
stand out uponflat worsted flowersunder my feet.Nimbly the shadowsof my fingers playunlacingover shoes and flowers.
If I when my wife is sleeping
are sleepingand the sun is a flame-white discin silken mistsabove shining trees,—if I in my north roomdance naked, grotesquelybefore my mirrorwaving my shirt round my headand singing softly to myself:‘I am lonely, lonely.I was born to be lonely,I am best so! ‘If I admire my arms, my face,my shoulders, flanks, buttocksagainst the yellow drawn shades,—Who…
They call me and I go.
past midnight, a dustof snow caughtin the rigid wheeltracks.The door opens.I smile, enter andshake off the cold.Here is a great womanon her side in the bed.She is sick,perhaps vomiting,perhaps laboringto give birth toa tenth child. Joy! Joy!Night is a roomdarkened for lovers,through the jalousies the sunhas sent one golden needle!I pick the hair from her…
The birches are mad with green points
burning, seething–No, no, no.The birches are opening their leaves oneby one. Their delicate leaves unfold coldand separate, one by one. Slender tasselshang swaying from the delicate branch tips–Oh, I cannot say it. There is no word.Black is split at once into flowers. Inevery bog and ditch, flares ofsmall fire, white flowers!–Agh,the birches are mad, mad…
are the desolate, dark weeks
equals the stupidity of man.The year plunges into nightand the heart plungeslower than nightto an empty, windswept placewithout sun, stars or moonbut a peculiar light as of thoughtthat spins a dark fire –whirling upon itself until,in the cold, it kindlesto make a man aware of nothingthat he knows, not lonelinessitself – Not a ghost butwould…
They tell me on the morrow I must leave
And truth to tell I tremble with delightAt thought of such unheralded reprieve.E’er have I known December in a weaveOf blanched crystal, when, thrice one short nightPacked full with magic, and O blissful sight!N’er May so warmly doth for April grieve.To in a breath’s space wish the winter throughAnd lo, to see it fading! Where,…