Others

Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate With shabby equipment always deteriorating In the general mess of imprecision of feeling, Undisciplined squads of emotion.

And we all go with them, into the silent funeral, Nobody’s funeral, for there is no one to bury. I said to my soul, be still, 8 and let the dark come upon you Which shall be the darkness of God.

A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion, Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.

O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It’s so elegant So intelligent.

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair— Lean on a garden urn— Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.

And I must borrow every changing shape To find expression.

And I must borrow every changing shape To find expression.

There will be time to murder and create.

Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. 1

The ant’s a centaur in his dragon world. Pull down thy vanity, it is not man Made courage, or made order, or made grace, Learn of the green world what can be thy place In scaled invention or true artistry, Pull down thy vanity, The green casque has outdone your elegance.

There died a myriad, And of the best, among them, For an old bitch gone in the teeth, For a botched civilization. Charm, smiling at the good mouth, Quick eyes gone under earth’s lid, For two gross of broken statues, For a few thousand battered books.

It gives no man a sinecure. And no one knows, at sight, a masterpiece. “And give up verse, my boy, There’s nothing in it.”

It gives no man a sinecure. And no one knows, at sight, a masterpiece. “And give up verse, my boy, There’s nothing in it.”

Better mendacities Than the classics in paraphrase!

Better mendacities Than the classics in paraphrase!

His true Penelope was Flaubert, He fished by obstinate isles.

The age demanded an image Of its accelerated grimace, Something for the modern stage, Not, at any rate, an Attic grace.

The age demanded an image Of its accelerated grimace, Something for the modern stage, Not, at any rate, an Attic grace.

For three years, out of key with his time, He strove to resuscitate the dead art Of poetry; to maintain “the sublime” In the old sense. Wrong from the start— No, hardly, but seeing he had been born In a half savage country, out of date.

For three years, out of key with his time, He strove to resuscitate the dead art Of poetry; to maintain “the sublime” In the old sense. Wrong from the start— No, hardly, but seeing he had been born In a half savage country, out of date.

The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough.

It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.