You sullen pig of a man

Their father is not of gay menAnd their mother jocular in no wise,Yet the coroner’s merry little childrenLaugh so easily.They laugh because they prosper.Fruit for them is upon all branches.Lo! how they jibe at loss, forKind heaven fills their little paunches!It’s the coroner’s merry, merry childrenWho laugh so easily.

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…

——————To each age as to each person its perfections. But in these things there is a kind of revolutionary sequence. So that a man having lain at ease here and advanced there as time progresses the order of these things becomes inverted. Thinking to have brought all to one level the man finds his foot…

their children’s hair, theSchool Physician firstbrought their hatred down on him.But by this familiaritythey grew used to him, and so,at last,took him for their friend and adviser.

by a spirit of uselessnesswhich delights them—all the exciting detailof the chaseand the escape, the errorthe flash of genius—all to no end save beautythe eternal—So in detail they, the crowd,are beautifulfor thisto be warned againstsaluted and defied—It is alive, venomousit smiles grimlyits words cut—The flashy female with hermother, gets it—The Jew gets it straight— itis…

crowned by excess,It break forcefully,one way or another,from its confinement—or find a deeper well.Antony and Cleopatrawere right;they have shownthe way. I love youor I do not liveat all.Daffodil timeis past. This issummer, summer!the heart says,and not even the full of it.No doubtsare permitted—though they will comeand maybefore our timeoverwhelm us.We are only mortalbut being mortalcan…

Not because of his eyes,the eyes of a bird,but because he is beaked,birdlike, to do an injury,has the turtle attracted you.He is your only pet.When we are togetheryou talk of nothing elseascribing all sortsof murderous motivesto his least action.You ask meto write a poem,should I have a poem to write,about a turtle.The turtle lives in…

for you have it over a troopof artists-unless one should scour the world-you have the ground sense necessary.See! the hearse leads.I begin with a design for a hearse.For Christ’s sake not black-nor white either – and not polished!Let it be whethered – like a farm wagon –with gilt wheels (this could beapplied fresh at small…

girdle.(I’ll buyyou one) O.K.(I wishyou’d wig-gle that wayfor me,I’d bea happy man)I GOTTAwig-gle for this.(You pig)

That makes us write-Let us acknowledge it-Men would be silent.We are not menTherefore we can speakAnd be conscious(of the two sides)Unbent by the sensualAs befits accuracy.I then said:Dare you make thisYour propaganda?And he answered:Am I not I-here?

of an ungoverned ocean which when it choosestortures the biggest hulls, the best man knowsto pit against its beatings, and sinks them pitilessly.Mothlike in mists, scintillant in the minutebrilliance of cloudless days, with broad bellying sailsthey glide to the wind tossing green waterfrom their sharp prows while over them the crew crawlsant-like, solicitously grooming them,…

or half so well. We talked. you were neverso lucid, so disengaged from all exigenciesof place and time. We talked of ourselves,intimately, a thing never heard between us.How long have we waited? almost a hundred years.You said, Unless there is some spark, somespirit we keep within ourselves, a life, acontinuing life’s impossible-and it is allwe…