the back wings

Blue is the sky of Palermo;Blue is the little bay;And dost thou remember the orange and fig,The lively sun and the sea breeze at evening?Hey—la!Donna! Donna! Maria!O—eh—li! La—la!Donna! Donna!Gray is the sky of this land.Gray and green is the water.I see no trees, dost thou? The windIs cold for the big woman there with the…

flecked and splashed and woundwith color. The crimson phalloiof the sassafras leaveshang crowded before mein shoals on the heavy branches.When I reach my doorstepI am greeted bythe happy shrieks of my childrenand my heart sinks.I am crushed.Are not my children as dear to meas falling leaves ormust one become stupidto grow older?It seems much as…

lies on his right side, head near the thunderof the waters filling his dreams! Eternally asleep,his dreams walk about the city where he persistsincognito. Butterflies settle on his stone ear.Immortal he neither moves nor rouses and is seldomseen, though he breathes and the subtleties of his machinationsdrawing their substance from the noise of the pouring…

nothing more to be desired! his statebecomes like that told in the famousdouble sonnet–but without thesonnet’s restrictions. Let him go lookat the river flowing or the bankof late flowers, there will be onesmall fly still among the petalsin whose gauzy wings raised aboveits back a rainbow shines. The worldto him is radiant and even the…

the beauties of travel are due tothe strange hours we keep to see them:the domes of the Church ofthe Paulist Fathers in Weehawkenagainst a smoky dawn — the heart stirred —are beautiful as Saint Petersapproached after years of anticipation.IIThough the operation was postponedI saw the tall probationersin their tan uniformshurrying to breakfast!III— and from basement…

I saw the figure 5in goldon a redfiretruckmovingtenseunheededto gong clangssiren howlsand wheels rumblingthrough the dark city.