all day long
we hear your scraping
summer song
like
rusty
fiddles
in
the
grass
as through
the meadow
path
we pass
such funny legs
such funny feet
and how we wonder
what you eat
maybe a single blink of dew
sipped from a clover leaf would do
then high in air
once more you spring
to fall in grass again
and sing.
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I.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,And lifts his palms for…
One, from his high bright window in a tower,
And sees the advancing curtain of the showerSplashing its silver on roofs and walls:Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city,And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea,Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons,And silver falling from eave and tree.One, from his high bright window, looking down,Peers like a dreamer over…
The half-shut doors through which we heard that music
The stars whirl out, the night grows deep.Darkness settles upon us. A vague refrainDrowsily teases at the drowsy brain.In numberless rooms we stretch ourselves and sleep.Where have we been? What savage chaos of musicWhirls in our dreams?—We suddenly rise in darkness,Open our eyes, cry out, and sleep once more.We dream we are numberless sea-waves languidly…
After the movie, when the lights come up,
She, all in yellow, like a buttercup,Lifts her white face, yearns up to him, and clings;And with a silent, gliding step they moveOver the footlights, in familiar glare,Panther-like in the Tango whirl of love,He fawning close on her with idiot stare.Swiftly they cross the stage. O lyric ease!The drunken music follows the sure feet,The swaying…
Two lovers, here at the corner, by the steeple,
And the crowd dissolves about them like a sea.Recurring waves of sound break vaguely about them,They drift from wall to wall, from tree to tree.‘Well, am I late?’ Upward they look and laugh,They look at the great clock’s golden hands,They laugh and talk, not knowing what they say:Only, their words like music seem to play;And…
Of what she said to me that night—no matter.
My brain was full of music—something she played me;I couldn’t remember it all, but phrases of itWreathed and wreathed among faint memories,Seeking for something, trying to tell me something,Urging to restlessness, verging on grief.I tried to play the tune, from memory—But memory failed: the chords and discords climbedAnd found no resolution, only hung there,And left…