So soft, so smooth and so cool,
Spring closes me in
With her arms and her hands.
Rich as the smell
Of new earth on a stone,
That has lain, breathing
The damp through its pores—
Spring closes me in
With her blossomy hair;
Brings dark to my eyes.
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I
crowdedwith childrenof all ages near a villageon a small streammeandering bywhere some boysare swimmingbare-assor climbing a tree in leafeverythingis motionelder women are lookingafter the smallfrya play wedding achristeningnearby one leansholleringintoan empty hogsheadIILittle girlswhirling their skirts aboutuntil they stand out flattops pinwheelsto run in the wind withor a toy in 3 tiers to spinwith a pieceof…
Ecstatic bird songs pound
with metallic clinkings–beating color up into itat a far edge,–beating it, beating itwith rising, triumphant ardor,–stirring it into warmth,quickening in it a spreading change,–bursting wildly against it asdividing the horizon, a heavy sunlifts himself–is lifted–bit by bit above the edgeof things,–runs free at lastout into the open–!lumberingglorified in full release upward–songs cease.
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses,
I have known the crisp, splintering leaf-tread with thee on before,White, slender through green saplings;I have lain by thee on the brown forest floorBeside thee, my Lady.Lady of rivers strewn with stones,Only thou art my Lady.Where thousand the freshets are crowded like peasants to a fair;Clear-skinned, wild from seclusionThey jostle white-armed down the tent-bordered thoroughfarePraising…
You Communists and Republicans!
you corpses and quickeners!The stars are about to meltand fall on you in tears.Get ready! Get ready!you Papists and Protestants!you whores and you virtuous!The moon will be breadand drop presently into your baskets.Friends and those who despiseand detest us!Adventists and those who believenothing!Get ready for the awakening.
Upon the table in their bowl
of yellow sprays, green spikesof leaves, red pointed petalsand curled heads of blueand white among the litterof the forks and crumbs and platesthe flowers remain composed.Coolly their colloquy continuesabove the coffee and loud talkgrown frail as vaudeville.
According to Brueghel
it was springa farmer was ploughinghis fieldthe whole pageantryof the year wasawake tinglingnearthe edge of the seaconcernedwith itselfsweating in the sunthat meltedthe wings’ waxunsignificantlyoff the coastthere wasa splash quite unnoticedthis wasIcarus drowning