The time of year has grown indifferent.
Mildew of summer and the deepening snow
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Day creeps down. The moon is creeping up.
The sun is a corbeil of flowers the moon Blanche
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Life contracts and death is expected,
As in season of autumn.
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It is time that beats in the breast and it is time
That batters against the mind, silent and proud,
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“Mother of heaven, regina of the clouds,
O sceptre of the sun, crown of the moon,
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One chemical afternoon in mid-autumn,
When the grand mechanics of earth and sky were near;
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There’s a little square in Paris,
Waiting until we pass.
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The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
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I
Opusculum paedagogum.
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You dweller in the dark cabin,
To whom the watermelon is always purple,
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Children picking up our bones
Will never know that these were once
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Go on, high ship, since now, upon the shore,
The snake has left its skin upon the floor.
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To sing jubilas at exact, accustomed times,
To be crested and wear the mane of a multitude
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The difficulty to think at the end of day,
When the shapeless shadow covers the sun
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There is a great river this side of Stygia
Before one comes to the first black cataracts
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I had as lief be embraced by the portier of the hotel
As to get no more from the moonlight
18 lines, 1 comment
Sister and mother and diviner love,
And of the sisterhood of the living dead
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First Girl
When this yokel comes maundering,
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One's grand flights, one's Sunday baths,
One's tootings at the weddings of the soul
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What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
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After the final no there comes a yes
And on that yes the future world depends.
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As the immense dew of Florida
Brings forth
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Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
They were of a remembered time
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My candle burned alone in an immense valley.
Beams of the huge night converged upon it,
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There it was, word for word,
The poem that took the place of a mountain.
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It is true that the rivers went nosing like swine, Tugging at banks, until they seemed
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Twenty men crossing a bridge,
Into a village,
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A sunny day's complete Poussiniana
Divide it from itself. It is this or that
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The lilacs wither in the Carolinas.
Already the butterflies flutter above the cabins.
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Among the more irritating minor ideas
Of Mr. Homburg during his visits home
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