Life and Existence

He knew the anguish of the marrow The ague of the skeleton; No contact possible to flesh Allayed the fever of the bone.

Uncorseted, her friendly bust Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

Webster was much possessed by death And saw the skull beneath the skin.

After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions, Guides us by vanities.

He had a mind so fine that no idea could violate it.

Here I am, an old man in a dry month, Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.

Here I am, an old man in a dry month, Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.

Sometimes these cogitations still amaze The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose.

Upon the glazen shelves kept watch Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith, The army of unalterable law.

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

I grow old… I grow old…. I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.

There will be time to murder and create.

Still falls the Rain— Dark as the world of man, black as our loss— Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails Upon the Cross.

The strong lean upon death as on a rock.

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich dead! There’s none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.

Lend me the stone strength of the past and I will lend you The wings of the future, for I have them.

Lend me the stone strength of the past and I will lend you The wings of the future, for I have them.

Now, God be thanked, Who has matched us with His hour, And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping.

Now, God be thanked, Who has matched us with His hour, And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping.

Fish say, they have their stream and pond; But is there anything beyond?

Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen Unpassioned beauty of a great machine; The benison of hot water; furs to touch; The good smell of old clothes.

And when the war is done and youth stone dead I’d toddle safely home and die—in bed.

Soldiers are citizens of death’s gray land.