In the Shadow of the Palace
LET us go out of the fog, John, out of the filmy persistent drizzle on the streets of Stockholm, let us put down the collars of our raincoats, take off our hats and sit
Happiness
I ASKED the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell Me what is happiness. And I went to famous executives who boss the work of Thousands of men. They all shook their
Out of White Lips
OUT of white lips a question: Shall seven million dead ask for their blood a little land for the living wives and children, a little land for the living brothers and sisters? Out of
How Yesterday Looked
THE HIGH horses of the sea broke their white riders On the walls that held and counted the hours The wind lasted. Two landbirds looked on and the north and the east Looked on
Dan
EARLY May, after cold rain the sun baffling cold wind. Irish setter pup finds a corner near the cellar door, all sun and no wind, Cuddling there he crosses forepaws and lays his skull
His Own Face Hidden
HOKUSAI’S portrait of himself Tells what his hat was like And his arms and legs. The only faces Are a river and a mountain And two laughing farmers. The smile of Hokusai is under
Portrait
(For S. A.)TO write one book in five years Or five books in one year, To be the painter and the thing painted, … where are we, bo? Wait-get his number. The barber shop
Shagbark Hickory
IN the moonlight under a shag-bark hickory tree Watching the yellow shadows melt in hoof-pools, Listening to the yes and the no of a woman’s hands, I kept my guess why the night was
Bath
A MAN saw the whole world as a grinning skull and Cross-bones. The rose flesh of life shriveled from all Faces. Nothing counts. Everything is a fake. Dust to Dust and ashes to ashes
June
Paula is digging and shaping the loam of a salvia, Scarlet Chinese talker of summer. Two petals of crabapple blossom blow fallen in Paula’s hair, And fluff of white from a cottonwood.
Man, the Man-Hunter
I SAW Man, the man-hunter, Hunting with a torch in one hand And a kerosene can in the other, Hunting with guns, ropes, shackles. I listened And the high cry rang, The high cry
Panels
THE WEST window is a panel of marching onions. Five new lilacs nod to the wind and fence boards. The rain dry fence boards, the stained knot holes, heliograph a peace. (How long ago
Letters To Dead Imagists
EMILY DICKINSON: You gave us the bumble bee who has a soul, The everlasting traveler among the hollyhocks, And how God plays around a back yard garden. STEVIE CRANE: War is kind and we
Masses
AMONG the mountains I wandered and saw blue haze and Red crag and was amazed; On the beach where the long push under the endless tide Maneuvers, I stood silent; Under the stars on
Far Rockaway Night till Morning
WHAT can we say of the night? The fog night, the moon night, the fog moon night last night? There swept out of the sea a song. There swept out of the sea-torn white