And gaze long on lines under your eyes.
Life writes; men dance.
And you know how men pay women.
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Jack was a swarthy, swaggering son-of-a-gun.
He married a tough woman and they had eight children and the woman died and the children grew up and went away and wrote the old man every two years.He died in the poorhouse sitting on a bench in the sun telling reminiscences to other old men whose women were dead and children scattered.There was…
There are no handles upon a language
And mark it with signs for its remembrance.It is a river, this language,Once in a thousand yearsBreaking a new courseChanging its way to the ocean.It is mountain effluviaMoving to valleysAnd from nation to nationCrossing borders and mixing.Languages die like rivers.Words wrapped round your tongue todayAnd broken to shape of thoughtBetween your teeth and lips speakingNow…
GRIEG being dead we may speak of him and his art.
Grieg being with Ibsen, Björnson, Lief Ericson and the rest,Grieg being dead does not care a hell’s hoot what we say.Morning, Spring, Anitra’s Dance,He dreams them at the doors of new stars.
Mrs. Gabrielle Giovannitti comes along Peoria Street
With kindling wood piled on top of her head, her eyeslooking straight ahead to find the way for her old feet.Her daughter-in-law, Mrs. Pietro Giovannitti, whosehusband was killed in a tunnel explosion throughthe negligence of a fellow-servant,Works ten hours a day, sometimes twelve, picking onionsfor Jasper on the Bowmanville road.She takes a street car at…
I have love
A banjoAnd shadows.(Losses of God,All will goAnd one dayWe will holdOnly the shadows.)
There was a high majestic fooling
And day after to-morrow in the yellow cornThere will be high majestic fooling.The ears ripen in late summerAnd come on with a conquering laughter,Come on with a high and conquering laughter.The long-tailed blackbirds are hoarse.One of the smaller blackbirds chitters on a stalkAnd a spot of red is on its shoulderAnd I never heard its…