Others

For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives In the valley of its saying where executives Would never want to tamper

Come up with me, American love. Kiss these secret stones with me. The torrential silver of the Urubamba makes the pollen fly to its golden cup. The hollow of the bindweed’s maze, the petrified plant, the inflexible garland, soar above the silence of these mountain coffers.

I got the Weary Blues And I can’t be satisfied.

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune, Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon, I heard a Negro play. Down on Lenox Avenue the other night By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light He did a lazy sway… He did a lazy sway… To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.

Rest at pale evening… A tall slim tree… Night coming tenderly Black like me.

I’ve known rivers: I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins. My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

As you are woman, so be lovely: As you are lovely, so be various, Merciful as constant, constant as various, So be mine, as I yours for ever.

and nothing quite so least as truth —i say though hate were why men breathe— because my father lived his soul love is the whole and more than all

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence.

the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds.

All in green went my love riding on a great horse of gold into the silver dawn.

Courage was mine, and I had mystery, Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery: To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled.

The poet is a little god.

The poet is a little god.

If ever I said, in grief or pride, I tired of honest things, I lied.

Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they Who, though once only and then but far away, Have heard her massive sandal set on stone.

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!

The world stands out on either side No wider than the heart is wide; Above the world is stretched the sky,— No higher than the soul is high. The heart can push the sea and land Farther away on either hand; The soul can split the sky in two, And let the face of God shine through. But East and West will pinch the heart That can not keep them pushed apart; And he whose soul is flat—the sky Will cave in on him by and by.

The matters I relate Are true lies. 3

The matters I relate Are true lies. 3

Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us To purify the dialect of the tribe. 9

What the dead had no speech for, when living, They can tell you, being dead: the communication Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.

That it is not heard at all, but you are the music While the music lasts.

To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not, You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy. In order to arrive at what you do not know You must go by the way which is the way of ignorance.