Après le Bain
I gotta Buy me a new Girdle. (I’ll buy You one) O. K. (I wish You’d wig- Gle that way For me, I’d be A happy man) I GOTTA Wig- Gle for this. (You
Youth And Beauty
I bought a dishmop – Having no daughter – For they had twisted Fine ribbons of shining copper About white twine And made a tousled head Of it, fastened it Upon a turned ash
Complaint
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road Past midnight, a dust Of snow caught In the rigid wheeltracks. The door opens. I smile, enter and Shake off the cold. Here
To Waken An Old Lady
Old age is A flight of small Cheeping birds Skimming Bare trees Above a snow glaze. Gaining and failing They are buffeted By a dark wind- But what? On harsh weedstalks The flock has
To A Friend Concerning Several Ladies
You know there is not much That I desire, a few chrysanthemums Half lying on the grass, yellow And brown and white, the Talk of a few people, the trees, An expanse of dried
A Goodnight
Go to sleep-though of course you will not – To tideless waves thundering slantwise against Strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray Dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind, Scattered and strewn
To A Poor Old Woman
munching a plum on The street a paper bag Of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good To her. They taste Good to her You can see it by
Aux Imagistes
I think I have never been so exalted As I am now by you, O frost bitten blossoms, That are unfolding your wings From out the envious black branches. Bloom quickly and make much
The Widow's Lament In Springtime
Sorrow is my own yard Where the new grass Flames as it has flamed Often before but not With the cold fire That closes round me this year. Thirtyfive years I lived with my
The Cold Night
It is cold. The white moon Is up among her scattered stars— Like the bare thighs of The Police Sergeant’s wife—among Her five children. . . No answer. Pale shadows lie upon The frosted
Heel & Toe To The End
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, He could have Gone on forever He floated At and sang And when he emerged from that One hundred eight minutes off The surface of The earth he was smiling.
This Is Just To Say
I have eaten The plums That were in The icebox And which You were probably Saving For breakfast Forgive me They were delicious So sweet And so cold
A Sort Of A Song
Let the snake wait under His weed And the writing Be of words, slow and quick, sharp To strike, quiet to wait, Sleepless. -through metaphor to reconcile The people and the stones. Compose. (No
Portrait Of A Lady
Your thighs are appletrees Whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky Where Watteau hung a lady’s Slipper. Your knees Are a southern breeze-or A gust of snow. Agh! what Sort of man
Pastoral
The little sparrows Hop ingenuously About the pavement Quarreling With sharp voices Over those things That interest them. But we who are wiser Shut ourselves in On either hand And no one knows Whether