Hart Crane

The Great Western Plains

The little voices of the prairie dogs Are tireless. . . They will give three hurrahs Alike to stage, equestrian, and pullman, And all unstingingly as to the moon. And Fifi’s bows and poodle

My hands have not touched pleasure since your hands, No, nor my lips freed laughter since ‘farewell’, And with the day, distance again expands Voiceless between us, as an uncoiled shell. Yet, love endures,

Voyages II

And yet this great wink of eternity, Of rimless floods, unfettered leewardings, Samite sheeted and processioned where Her undinal vast belly moonward bends, Laughing the wrapt inflections of our love; Take this Sea, whose

Fear

The host, he says that all is well And the fire-wood glow is bright; The food has a warm and tempting smell,- But on the window licks the night. Pile on the logs… Give

To Emily Dickinson

You who desired so much in vain to ask Yet fed you hunger like an endless task, Dared dignify the labor, bless the quest Achieved that stillness ultimately best, Being, of all, least sought

Chaplinesque

We will make our meek adjustments, Contented with such random consolations As the wind deposits In slithered and too ample pockets. For we can still love the world, who find A famished kitten on

To Brooklyn Bridge

How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest The seagull’s wings shall dip and pivot him, Shedding white rings of tumult, building high Over the chained bay waters Liberty Then, with inviolate curve, forsake

The Visible, The Untrue

Yes, I being The terrible puppet of my dreams, shall Lavish this on you- The dense mine of the orchid, split in two. And the fingernails that cinch such Environs? And what about the

Forgetfulness

Forgetfulness is like a song That, freed from beat and measure, wanders. Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled, Outspread and motionless, A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly. Forgetfulness is rain

Interior

It sheds a shy solemnity, This lamp in our poor room. O grey and gold amenity, Silence and gentle gloom! Wide from the world, a stolen hour We claim, and none may know How

Legend

As silent as a mirror is believed Realities plunge in silence by. . . I am not ready for repentance; Nor to match regrets. For the moth Bends no more than the still Imploring

At Melville's Tomb

Often beneath the wave, wide from this ledge The dice of drowned men’s bones he saw bequeath An embassy. Their numbers as he watched, Beat on the dusty shore and were obscured. And wrecks

Carmen De Boheme

Sinuously winding through the room On smokey tongues of sweetened cigarettes, Plaintive yet proud the cello tones resume The andante of smooth hopes and lost regrets. Bright peacocks drink from flame-pots by the wall,