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.—Your hypocrite hangs on the truth, sea-sore.[99]A murmuration of the shallow, CraneSees us, or so, twittering at nightfallAbout the eaves, coloured and houseless soul,Before the mucksweat rising of the Wain.No black or white here; and our given brainTroubles us incompletely; if we callSometimes to one another, if we fallSorry, we soon forget; wing’d, but in vain.He fell in love once, when upon her armsHe concentrated what I call his faith.He died, and dropt into a German hole,A generation or our culture’s swarmsAccumulated honey for your wraith—Does his wraith watch?—ash-blond and candid soul![100]I am interested alone in making ready,Pointed, more splendid, O the Action whichAttends your whim; bridge interim; enrichThat unimaginable-still, with studySo sharp at time the probe shivers back bloody;Test the strange circuit but to trust the switch.The Muse is real, the random shades I stitch—Devoted vicarage—somewhere real, and steady.Burnt cork, my leer, my Groucho crouch and rush,No more my nature than Cyrano’s: weAre ‘hindered characters’ and mock the time,The curving and incomprehensible hushEinstein requires before that colloquyAltared of joy concludes our pantomime![101]Because I’d seen you not believe your lover,Because you scouted cries come from no cliff,Because to supplications you were stiffAs Ciro, O as Nero to discoverSlow how your subject loved you, I would hoverBetween the slave and rebel—till this lifeArrives: ‘… was astonished as I would be ifI leaned against a house and the house fell over…’Well, it fell over, over: trust him now:A stronger house than looked—you leaned, and crash,My walls and ceiling were to be walked on.—The same thing happened once in Chaplin, howHe solved it now I lose.—Walk on the trash.Walk softly, triste,—little is really gone.[102]A penny, pity, for the runaway ass!A nickel for the killer’s twenty-six-mile ride!Ice for the root rut-smouldering inside!—Eight hundred weeks I have not run to Mass.—Toss Jack a jawful of good August grass!‘Soul awful’, pray for a soul sometimes has cried!Wire reasons he seasons should still abide!—Hide all your arms where he is bound to pass.—Who drew me first aside? her I forgive,Or him, as I would be forgotten byO be forgiven for salt bites I took.Who drew me off last, willy-nilly, liveOn (darling) free.If we meet, know me byYour own exempt (I pray) and earthly look.[103]A ‘broken heart’.but can a heart break, now?Lovers have stood bareheaded in love’s ‘storm’Three thousand years, changed by their mistress’ ‘charm’,Fitted their ‘torment’ to a passive bow,Suffered the ‘darts’ under a knitted brow,And has one heart broken for all this ‘harm’?An arm is something definite.My armIs acting—I hardly know to tell you how.It aches.well, after fifteen minutes ofServing, I can’t serve more, it’s not my arm,A piece of pain joined to me, helpless dumb thing.After four months of work-destroying love(An hour, I still don’t lift it: I feel real alarm:Weeks of this,—no doctor finds a thing),not much; and not all.Still, this is something.[104]A spot of poontang on a five-foot piece,Diminutive, but room enough.like clayTo finger eager on some torrid day.Who’d throw her black hair back, and hang, and tease.Never, not once in all one’s horny leaseTo’have had a demi-lay, a pretty, gay,Snug, slim and supple-breasted girl for play.She bats her big, warm eyes, and slides like grease.And cuff her silly-hot again, mouth hotAnd wet her small round writhing—but this screamsSuddenly awake, unreal as alkahest,My god, this isn’t what I want!—You totThe harrow-days you hold me to, black dreams,The dirty water to get off my chest.[105]Three, almost, now into the ass’s years,When hard on burden burden galls my back,I carry corn feeds others, only crackCudgels, kicks on me, mountainous arrearsWorsen—avulse my fiery shirt!—The spheresMay sing with pain, I grieve knee-down, I slackDeeper in evil.love’s demoniacJerquer, who frisked me, hops aside and jeers.The dog’s, and monkey’s years—pot’s residue,Growling and toothless, giggling, grimacing—I hope to miss.Who in my child could seeThe adulter and bizarre of thirty-two?—But I will seem more silent soon.mire-king.Time, time that damns, disvexes.Unman me.[106]Began with swirling, blind, unstilled oh still,—The tide had set in toward the western doorAnd I was working with the tide, I boreMy panful of reflexion firm, untilA voice arrested me,—body, and will,And panful, wheeled and spilt, tempted nerves tore,And all uncome time blackened like the coreOf an apple on through man’s heart moving still.At nine o’clock and thirty Thursday night,In Nineteen Forty-seven, FebruaryTwice-ten-day, by a doorway in McCosh,So quietly neither the rip’s cold sloshNor the meshing of great wheels warned me, unwary,An enigmatic girl smiled out my sight [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]