laugh many years ago.
Under a peach tree I saw petals scattered
.. torn strips of a bride’s dress. I heard
a woman laugh many years ago.
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They have painted and sung
and the plaits and strands in the sun,and the golden combsand the combs of elephant tusksand the combs of buffalo horn and hoof.The sun has been good to women,drying their heads of hairas they stooped and shook their shouldersand framed their faces with copperand framed their eyes with dusk or chestnut.The rain has been good…
Let me be monosyllabic to-day, O Lord.
To-day, let me be monosyllabic . . . . a crony of old men who wash sunlight in their fingers and enjoy slow-pacing clocks.
The voice of the last cricket
is one kind of good-by.It is so thin a splinter of singing.
SMOKE of the fields in spring is one,
Smoke of a steel-mill roof or a battleship funnel,They all go up in a line with a smokestack,Or they twist … in the slow twist … of the wind.If the north wind comes they run to the south.If the west wind comes they run to the east.By this signall smokesknow each other.Smoke of the fields…
THE DOME of the capitol looks to the Potomac river.
Out of a smoke rose gold:One star shines over the sunset.Night takes the dome and the river, the sun and the smoke rose gold,The haze changes from sunset to star.The pour of a thin silver struggles against the dark.A star might call: It’s a long way across.
And so to-day- they lay him away-
the buck private- the unknown soldier-the doughboy who dug under and diedwhen they told him to- that’s him.Down Pennsylvania Avenue to-day the riders go,men and boys riding horses, roses in their teeth,stems of roses, rose leaf stalks, rose dark leaves-the line of the green ends in a red rose flash.Skeleton men and boys riding skeleton…