Their father is not of gay men
And their mother jocular in no wise,
Yet the coroner’s merry little children
Laugh so easily.
They laugh because they prosper.
Fruit for them is upon all branches.
Lo! how they jibe at loss, for
Kind heaven fills their little paunches!
It’s the coroner’s merry, merry children
Who laugh so easily.
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The green-blue ground
to say the sun is shiningAnd on this moral seaof grass or dreams lie flowersor baskets of desiresHeaven knows what they arebetween cerulean shapeslaid regularly roundMat roses and tridentateleaves of goldthrees, threes and threesThree roses and three stemsthe basket floatingstanding in the horns of blueRepeating to the ceilingto the windowswhere the dayBlows inthe scalloped curtains…
You sullen pig of a man
with your stinking ash-cart!Brother!–if we were richwe’d stick our chests outand hold our heads high!It is dreams that have destroyed us.There is no more pridein horses or in rein holding.We sit hunched together broodingour fate.Well–all things turn bitter in the endwhether you choose the right orthe left wayand–dreams are not a bad thing.
1
——————In middle life the mind passes to a variegated October. This is the time youth in its faulty aspirations has set for the achievement of great summits. But having attained the mountain top one is not snatched into a cloud but the descent proffers its blandishments quite as a matter of course. At this the…
As the cat
the top ofthe jamclosetfirst the rightforefootcarefullythen the hindstepped downinto the pit ofthe emptyflowerpotAnonymous submission.
They call me and I go.
past midnight, a dustof snow caughtin the rigid wheeltracks.The door opens.I smile, enter andshake off the cold.Here is a great womanon her side in the bed.She is sick,perhaps vomiting,perhaps laboringto give birth toa tenth child. Joy! Joy!Night is a roomdarkened for lovers,through the jalousies the sunhas sent one golden needle!I pick the hair from her…
You know there is not much
half lying on the grass, yellowand brown and white, thetalk of a few people, the trees,an expanse of dried leaves perhapswith ditches among them.But there comesbetween me and these thingsa letteror even a look–well placed,you understand,so that I am confused, twistedfour ways and–left flat,unable to lift the food tomy own mouth:Here is what they say:…