The river sleeps, entranced, a smooth cool sleep
Seeming so motionless that I forget
The hollow booming bridges, where it slides,
Dark with the sad looks that it bears along,
Towards a sea whose unreturning tides
Ravish the sighted ships and the sailors’ song.
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While I have been fumbling over books
Other young men have been battling with the daysAnd others have been kissing the beautiful women.They have brazen faces like battering-rams.But I who think about books and such-I crumble to impotent dust before the struggling,And the women palsy me with fear.But when it comes to fumbling over booksAnd thinking about God and the Devil and…
Spring is past and over these many days,
Yellowing afid all but dead on the patient trees.Nor is there any hope in me. I walkSlowly homeward. Night is as empty and darkBehind my eyes as it is dark withoutAnd empty round about me and over me.Spring is past and over these many days;But, looking up, suddenly I seeLeaves in the upthrown light of…
All fly- yet who is misanthrope?-
Jostling, to wither as the grassSo soon: and (be it heaven’s hope,Or poetry’s kaleidoscope,Or love or wine, at feast, at mass)Each owns a paradise of glassWhere never a yearning heliotropePursues the sun’s ascent or slope;For the sun dreams there, and no time is or was.Like fauns embossed in our domain,We look abroad, and our calm…
White in the moonlight,
We have known the languorOf being two.We have been wearyAs children are,When over them, radiant,A stooping star,Bends their Good-Night,Kissed and smiled:-Each was mother,Each was child.Child, from your foreheadI kissed the hair,Gently, ah, gently:And you wereMistress and motherWhen on your breastI lay so safelyAnd could rest.
Failing sometimes to understand
Like carrion puffed with noisome steam,Fly-blown to the eye that looks on it,Fly-blown to the touch of a hand;Why there are men without any legs,Whizzing along on little trolliesWith long long arms like apes’:Failing to see why God the TopiaristShould train and carve and twistMen’s bodies into such fantastic shapes:Yes, failing to see the point…
I am not one of those who sip,
Cheap idylls from a languid lipPrepared to yawn or mock.I wait the indubitable word,The great Unconscious Cue.Has it been spoken and unheard?Spoken, perhaps, by you …?