Sour Grapes by William Carlos Williams ~ Full Audiobook
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THE LATE SINGER

March. 1. Winter is long in this climate, and spring a matter of a few days only. A flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves, or at best, against treacherous bitterness of wind and sky shining teasingly, then closing in black and sudden with fierce jaws. 2. March. You remind me of the pyramids, our pyramids, stripped of the polished stone that used to guard them,

March, you are like Fra Angelico at Friosole, painting on plaster. March, you are like a band of young poets that have not learned the blessedness of warmth, or have forgotten it. At any rate, I am moved to write poetry for the warmth there is in it, and for the loneliness. A poem that shall have you in it, March. 3. See?

archer bani pal the archer king on horseback in blue and yellow enamel with drawn bow facing lions standing on their hind legs fangs bared his shafts bristling in their necks sacred bulls dragons in embossed brickwork marching in four tiers along the sacred way to nebuchadnezzar's throne hall they shine in the sun they that have been marching marching under the dust of ten thousand dirt years

now they are coming into bloom again see them marching still bared by the storms from my calendar winds that blow back the sand winds that enfilade dirt winds that by strange craft have whipped up a black army that by pick and shovel bear a procession to the god

natives cursing and digging for pay unearthed dragons with upright tails and sacred bulls alternately in four tiers lining the way to an old altar natives digging at old walls digging me warmth digging me sweet loneliness high enamelled walls for my second spring passed in a monastery with plaster walls and frio sole on the hill above florence

my second spring painted a virgin in a blue aureole sitting on a three-legged stool arms crossed she is intently serious and still watching an angel with coloured wings half kneeling before her and smiling the angel's eyes holding the eyes of mary as a snake's holds a bird's on the ground there are flowers trees are in leaf

V. But now for the battle, now for murder, now for the real thing. My third springtime is approaching. Winds, lean, serious as a virgin, seeking, seeking, the flowers of March, seeking flowers nowhere to be found, the twine among the bare branches in insatiable eagerness. They whirl up the snow, seeking under it. They, the winds, snake-like, roar among yellow reeds, seeking flowers, flowers, flowers,

i spring among them seeking one flower in which to warm myself i deride with all the ridicule of misery my own starved misery counter-cutting winds strike against me refreshing their fury come good cold fellows have we no flowers defy then with even more desperation than ever being lean and frozen but though you are lean and frozen think of the blue bowls of babylon

fling yourselves upon their empty roses cut savagely but think of the painted monastery at fiesole birkitt and the stars a day on the boulevards chosen out of ten years of student poverty

"'One best day out of ten good ones. Burkitt and high spirits. High oranges! Let's have one!' And he made to snatch an orange from the vendor's cart. Now so clever was the deception, so nicely timed to the full sweep of certain wave summits, that the rumor of the thing has come down through three generations, which is relatively forever. A celebration!'

a middle northern march now as always gusts from the south broken against cold winds but from under as if a slow hand lifted the tide it moves not into april into a second march the old skin of wind-clear scales dropping upon the mould this is the shadow projects the tree upward causing the sun to shine in his sphere so we will put on our pink felt hat

new last year newer this by virtue of brown eyes turning back the seasons and let us walk to the orchard-house see the flowers will take the prize to-morrow at the palace stop here these are oleanders when they are in bloom you would waste words it is clearer to me than if the pink were on the branch it would be a searching in a coloured cloud to reveal that which now huskless shows the very reason for their being

and these the orange trees and blossom no need to tell with this weight of perfume in the air and if it were not so dark in the shed one could better see the white it is that very perfume has drawn the darkness down among the leaves do i speak clearly enough it is the darkness reveals that which darkness alone loosens and sets spinney on waxen wings not the touch of a finger-tip not the motion of a sigh

A too heavy sweetness proves its own caretaker.

and here are the orchids never having seen such gaiety i will read these flowers for you this is an odd january dyed in elon's time snow this is and this the stain of a violet grew in that place the spring that foresaw its own doom and this a certain july from iceland a young woman of that place breathed it toward the south it took root there the color ran true but the plant is small

this falling spray of snowflakes is a handful of dead februaries prayed into flower by rafael arevalo martinez of guatimala here's that old friend who went by my side so many years this full fragile head of veined lavender

oh that april that we first went with our stiff lusts leaving the city behind out to the green hill may they said she was a hand for all of us this branch of blue butterflies tied to the stem june is a yellow cup i'll not name

august the over-heavy one and here are russet and shiny all but march and march ah march flowers are a tiresome pastime one has a wish to shake them from their pots root and stem for the sun to gnaw walk out again into the cold and saunter home to the fire this day has blossomed long enough i've wiped out the red night and lit a blaze instead which will at least warm our hands and stir up the talk

i think we have kept fair time time is a green orchid april if you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together

But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake was too low in the sky. It was too great at pushing against him, too much of sumac buds, pink in the head with a clear gum upon them, too many opening hearts of lilac leaves, too many, too many swollen, limp poplar tassels on the bare branches. It was too strong in the air. I had no rest against that springtime. The pounding of the hoofs on the raw sods stayed with me half through the night,

i awoke smiling but tired a good night 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 broadcast in over the steady car rails sleep sleep gulls cry in a wind-gust broken by the wind calculating wings set above the field of waves breaking

Goat to sleep to the lunge between foam crests. Refuse churned in the recoil. Food, food, awful, awful, that holds them in the air. Wave white with one purpose. Feather upon feather, the wild chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices. Sleep, sleep. Gentle-footed crowds are treading out your lullaby. Their arms nudge. They brush shoulders. Hitched this way, then that. Mass and surge at the crossings.

lullaby lullaby the wild foul police whistles the enraged roar of the traffic machine shrieks it is all to put you to sleep to soften your limbs in relaxed postures and that your head slip sideways and your hair loosen and fall over your eyes and over your mouth brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream sleep and dream

A black fungus springs out about lonely church doors. Sleep, sleep, the night coming down upon the wet boulevard would start you awake with his message to have in at your window. Pay no heed to him, he storms at your sill with coolings, with gestulations, curses. You will not let him in, he would keep you from sleeping.

he would have you sit under your desk lamp brooding pondering he would have you slide out the drawer take up the ornamented dagger and handle it it is late it is nineteen nineteen go to sleep his cries are a lullaby his jabbering is a sleep well my baby he is a crack-brained messenger

The maid waking you in the morning when you are up and dressing, the rustle of your clothes as you raise them. It is the same tune. At table the cold, greenish, split grapefruit, its juice on the tongue, the chink of the spoon in your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over. The open street door lets in the breath of the morning wind from over the lake. The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes. Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby.

the crackle of a newspaper the movement of a troubled coat beside you sleep sleep sleep sleep it is the sting of snow the burning liquor of the moonlight the rush of rain in the gutters packed with dead leaves go to sleep go to sleep and the night passes and never passes overture to a dance of locomotives one

men with picked voices chant the names of cities in a huge gallery promises that pull through descending stairways to a deep rumbling the rubbing feet of those coming to be carried quicken a grey pavement into soft light that rocks to and fro under the domed ceiling across and across from pale earth-coloured walls of bare limestone

covertly the hands of a great clock go round and round were they to move quickly and at once the whole secret would be out and the shuffling of all ants be done for ever a leaning pyramid of sunlight narrowing at a high window moves by the clock disaccordant hands straining out from a centre inevitable postures infinitely repeated two

Two, two-four, two-eight. Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms. This way, ma'am. Important not to take the wrong train. Lights from the concrete ceiling hang crooked, but...

poised horizontal on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders packed with a warm glow inviting entry pull against the hour but brakes can hold a fixed posture till the whistle not to eight not to four two gliding windows coloured cooks sweating in a small kitchen taillights

in time to four in time to eight rivers are tunnelled trestles cross oozy swampland wheels repeating the same gesture remain relatively stationary rails forever parallel return on themselves infinitely the dance is sure romance

Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whose flickering mountain, bulging nearer, ebbing back into the sun, hollowing itself away to hold a lake, or brown stream rising and falling at the roadside, turning about, churning itself white, drawing green in over it, plunging, glassy funnels fall, and the other world, the windshield, a blunt barrier, talk to me.

They would hear us, the back of their heads facing us. The stream continues its motion of a hound running over rough ground. Trees vanish, reappear.

vanish detached dance of gnomes as a talk dodging remarks glows and fades the unseen power of words and now that a few of the moves are clear the first desire is to fling oneself out at the side and to the other dance to other music peer gynt rip van winkle diana

If I were young I would try a new alignment, alight nimbly from the car. Goodbye. Childhood companions link two and two, crisscross, four, three, two, one, back into self. Tentacles withdrawn, feel about in warm self-flesh. Since childhood, since childhood. Childhood is a toad in the garden, a happy toad. All toads are happy and belong in gardens. A toad to Diana.

lean forward, punch the steersman behind the ear, twirl the wheel, over the edge, screams, crash, the end, I sit above my head, a little removed or a thin wash of rain on the roadside, and I am never afraid when he is driving, interposes new direction, rides us sideways, unforeseen into the ditch, all threads cut, death, black, the end, the very end,

I would sit separate, weighing a small red handful, the dirt of these parts, sliding miss sheeting the adlers against the touch of fingers creeping to mine. All stuff of the blind emotions, but stirred, the eye seizes for the first time, the eye awake, anything, a dirt bank with green stars of scrawny weed flattened upon it under a weight of air, for the first time, or a yawning depth, big,

swim around in it through it all directions and find vitreous seawater stuff god how i love you or as i say i'd plunge into the ditch the end i sit examining my red handful balancing this in and out ah love you it's a fire in the blood willy-nilly

it's the sun coming up in the morning ha but it's the grey moon too already up in the morning you're slow men are not friends where it concerns a woman fighters playfellows white round thighs youth size it's the philip of novelty

Mountains, elephants humping along against the sky, indifferent to light withdrawing its tattered shreds, worn out with embraces. It's the fill-up of novelty. It's a fire in the blood. Oh, get a flannel shirt, white flannel or a pongee. You'd look so well. I married you because I liked your nose. I wanted you. I wanted you in spite of all they'd say. Rain and light, mountain and rain, rain and river. Will you love me always?'

A car overturned and two crushed bodies under it. Always, always, and the white moon already up. White, clean, all the colors. A good head backed by the eye, awake, backed by the emotions, blind. River and mountain, light and rain, or rain, rock, light, trees. Divided, rain, light counter, rocks, trees, or trees counter, rain, light, rocks, or trees.

Myriads of counter-percessions, crossing and recrossing, regaining the advantage, buying here, selling there, you are sold cheap everywhere in town, lingering, touching fingers, withdrawing, gathering forces into blares, hummocks, peaks and rivers, river meeting rock. I wish that you were lying there dead, and I sitting here beside you. It's the grey moon, over and over, it's the clay of these parts, the desolate field,

Vast and gray, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and gray, and in the tall dry grass is a goatsters with nozzle searching the ground. My head is in the air, but who am I? And amazed my heart leaps at the thought of love, vast and gray, yearning silently over me. Willow-pong.

It is a willow when summer is over, a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen, nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.

the leaves cling and grow paler swing and grow paler over the swirling waters of the river as if loath to let go they are so cool so drunk with the swirl of the wind and of the river oblivious to winter the last to let go and fall into the water and on the ground approach of winter

the half-stripped trees struck by a wind together bending all the leaves fluttered dryly and refused to let go or driven like hail streamed bitterly out to one side and fall were the salvias hard carmine like no leaf that ever was edge the bare garden january

again i reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derision outside my window play louder you will not succeed i am bound more to my sentences the more you batter at me to follow you and the wind as before fingers perfectly its derisive music

"'Snow. Years of anger following hours that float idly down. The blizzard drifts its weight deeper and deeper for three days or sixty years, eh? Then the sun, a clutter of yellow and blue flakes. Hairy-looking trees stand out in long alleys over a wild solitude. The man turns, and there his solitary track stretched out upon the world, 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 weed-stalks the flock is rested the snow is covered with broken seed-husks and the wind tempered by a shrill piping of plenty winter trees

all the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed the liquid moon moves gently among the long branches thus having prepared their buds against a sure winter the wise trees stand sleeping in the cold they call me and i go it is a frozen road past midnight a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheel tracks the door opens i smile enter and shake off the cold

here is a great woman on her side in the bed she is sick perhaps vomiting perhaps laboring to give birth to a tenth child joy joy night has her room darkened for lovers through the jealousies the sun has sent one gold needle i pick the hair from her eyes and watch her misery with compassion the cold night

it is cold the white moon is up above 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 grass

one answer it is midnight it is still and it is cold white thighs of the sky a new answer out of the depths of a male belly in april in april i shall see again in april the round and perfect thighs of the police sergeant's wife perfect still after many babies oh yeah spring storm the sky has given over its bitterness out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls as if it would never end

still the snow keeps its hold on the ground but water water from a thousand runnels it collects swiftly dappled with black cuts away for itself through green ice in the gutters drop after drop it falls from the withered grass stems of the overhanging embankment the delicacies

the hostess in pink satin and blond hair dressed high shone beautifully in her white slippers against the great silent bald head of her little-eyed husband raising a glass of yellow rhine wine in the narrow space just beyond the light varnished woodwork and the decorative column between dining-room and hall she smiled the smile of water tumbling from one ledge to another

We began with a herring salad, delicately flavored saltiness in scallops of lettuce leaves. The little owl-eyed and thick-set lady with masses of gray hair has smooth pink cheeks without a wrinkle. She cannot be the daughter of the little red-faced fellow dancing about, inviting lion-headed wolf the druggist to play the piano. But she is."

wolf is a terrific smoker the telephone goes off at night so his curled-haired wife whispers he rises from bed but cannot answer till he has lighted a cigarette sherry wine and little conical glasses dull brownish yellow and tomato stuffed with finely cut chicken and mayonnaise the tall irishman in a prince albert and the usual striped trousers is going to sing for us the piano is in a little alcove with dark curtains

the hostess's sister ten years younger than she in black net and velvet has hair like some filmy haystack cloudy about the eyes she will play for her husband my wife is young yes she is young and pretty when she cares to be when she is interested in a discussion it is the little dancing mayor's wife telling her of the day nursery in east rutherford cross the track divide it from us by the railroad and disputes as to precedence

it is in this town the saloon flourishes the saloon of my friend on the right whose wife is twice offended with chance words her english is atrocious it is in this town that the saloon is situated close to the railroad track close as may be this side being dry dry dry two people listening on opposite sides of a wall

the day nursery had sixty-five babies the week before last so my wife's eyes shine and her cheeks are pink and i cannot see a blemish ice-cream in the shape of flowers and domestic objects a pipe for me since i do not smoke a doll for you the figure of some great bulk of a woman disappearing into the kitchen with a quick look over the shoulder my friend on the left who has spent the whole day in a car the like of which some old fellow would give to an actress

flower-holders, mirrors, curtains, plush seats, my friend on the left who was chairman of the streets committee of the town council, and who has spent the whole day studying automobile fire engines in neighboring towns, review of purchase, my friend at the Elks last week at the breaking-up hymn, signaled for them to let Bill, a familiar friend of the saloon-keeper, sing out all alone to the organ, and he did sing."

Souse rolls, exquisite, and rind wine, ad libitum, a masterly caviar sandwich. The children flitting about above stairs. The councilman has just bought a national eight. Some car. For heaven's sake, I mustn't forget the halves of green peppers stuffed with cream cheese and whole walnuts. Thursday. I've had my dream, like others.'

and it has come to nothing, so that I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground, and look up at the sky, feeling my clothes about me, the weight of my body in my shoes, the rim of my hat, air passing in and out at my nose, and decide to dream no more. The dark day, a three-day-long rain from the east, an interminable talking, talking of no consequence, patter, patter, patter,

hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant warm distance cut off seclusion a few passers-by drawn in upon themselves hurry from one place to another winds of the white poppy there is no escape an interminable talking talking talking it has happened before backward backward backward time the hangman

"'Poor old Abner, old white-haired nigger. I remember when you were so strong you hung yourself by a rope round the neck in Doc Hollister's barn to prove you could beat the faker in the circus, and it didn't kill you. Now your face is in your hands and your elbows are on your knees, and you are silent and broken. To a friend. "'Well, Lizzie Anderson. Seventeen men and the baby hard to find a father for.'

what will the good father in heaven say to the local judge if he does not solve this problem a little two-pointed smile and poof the laws changed into a mouthful of phrases the gentlemen i feel the caress of my own fingers on my own neck as i place my collar and think pityingly of the kind women i have known the sloughing wind

Some leaves hang late, some fall before the first frost. So goes the tale of winter branches and old bones. Spring! Oh, my grey hairs! You are truly white as plump blossoms. Play! Subtle, clever brain, wiser than I am. By what devious means do you contrive to remain idle? Teach me, oh master! End of Sour Grapes Part 1

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SOUR GRAPES by William Carlos Williams. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Lines. Leaves are green-gray, the glass broken, bright green, the poor, by constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children's hair.

The school physician first brought their hatred down on him, but by this familiarity they grew used to him, and so at last took him for their friend and advisor. Complete destruction. It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the backyard. Those fleas that escaped earth and fire died by the cold. Memory of April. You say love is this, love is that.

POPLAR TASSELS, WILLOW TINDRALS, THE WIND AND THE RAIN CALM, TINKLE AND DRIP, TINKLE AND DRIP, BRANCHES DRIFTING APART, HUCK, LOVE HAS NOT EVEN VISITED THIS COUNTRY, EPITAPH, AN OLD WILLOW WITH HOLLOW BRANCHES, SLOWLY SWAYED HER FEW HIGH BRIGHT TINDRALS AND SANG, LOVE IS A YOUNG GREEN WILLOW SHIMMERING AT THE BARE WOODS EDGE, DAISY,

the day's eye hugging the earth in august ha spring is gone down and purple weeds stand high in the corn the rain-beaten furrow is clotted with sorrel and crab grass the branch is black under the heavy mass of the leaves the sun is upon a slender green stem ribbed lengthways he lies on his back it is a woman also

he regards his former majesty and round the yellow centre split and creviced and done into minute flower-heads he sends out his twenty rays a little and the wind is among them to grow cool there

one turns the thing over in his hand and looks at it from the rear brown edged green and pointed scales his yellow but turn and turn the crisp petals remain brief translucent green fastened barely touching at the edges blades of limpid sea-shell primrose

Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow. It is not a color, it is summer. It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow under a bush, a bird, a bluebird, three herons, a dead hawk, rotting on a pole. Clear yellow. It is a piece of blue paper in the grass, or a three-cluster of green walnuts swaying. Children, children playing croquet, or one boy fishing, a man swinging his pink fists as he walks.

it is lady's thumb forget-me-nots in the ditch moss under the flange of the car-rail the wavy lines in split rock a great oak tree it is a disinclination to be five red petals or a rose it is a cluster of bird's-breast flowers on a red stem six feet high four open yellow petals above sepals curl backward into reverse spikes

Tufts of purple grass spot the green meadow and clouds the sky. Queen Anne's lace. Her body is not so white as anemone petals, nor so smooth, nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot, taking the field by force. The grass does not raise above it. Here is no question of whiteness. White as it can be, with a purple mole at the center of each flower. Each flower is a hand's span of her whiteness.

wherever his hand has lain there is a tiny purple blemish each part is a blossom under his touch to which the fibres of her being stem one by one each to its end until the whole field is a white desire empty a single stem a cluster flower by flower a pious wish to whiteness gone over or nothing great mullein one leaves his leaves at home being a mullein

and sends up a lighthouse to peer from. I will have my way, Yellow. Amassed with a lantern, ten-fifty, a hundred, smaller and smaller as they grow more. Liar, liar, liar! You come from her. I can smell der kiss on your clothes. Ha, ha, you come to me, you. I am a point of dew on a grass stem. Why are you sending heat down on me from your lantern? You are cow dung, a dead stick with the bark off. She is squirting on us both. She has had her hand on you.

"'Well, she has defiled me. Your leaves are dull, thick, and hairy. Every hair on my body will hold you off from me. You are a dung-cake, bird-lime on a fence-rail. I love you, straight, yellow finger of God, pointing to her. Lie-her, broken weed, dung-cake, you have. I am a cricket waving his antennae, and you are high, grey and straight. Ha! Waiting. When I am alone, I am happy.'

the air is cool the sky is flecked and splashed and wound with colour the crimson falloy of the sassafras leaves hang crowded before me and shoals on the heavy branches when i reach my doorstep i am greeted by the happy shrieks of my children and my heart sinks i am crushed

are not my children as dear to me as falling leaves or must one become stupid to grow older it seems much as if sorrow had tripped up my heels let us see let us see what did i plan to say to her when it should happen to me as it has happened now the hunter in the flashes and black shadows of july the days locked in each other's arms seem still so that squirrels and coloured birds go about at ease

over the branches and through the air where will a shoulder split or a forehead open in victory be nowhere both sides grow older and you may be sure not one leaf will lift itself from the ground and become fast to a twig again arrival

and yet one arrives somehow finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles the tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind to a friend concerning several ladies you know there is not much that i desire a few chrysanthemums half lie on the grass yellow and brown and white

the talk of a few people, the trees, an expanse of dried leaves perhaps with ditches among them. But there comes between me and these things a letter, or even a book, well placed, you understand, so that I am confused, twisted four ways, and left flat, unable to lift the food to my own mouth. Here is what they say. Come, and come, and come, and if I do not go I remain stale to myself, and if I go—

I have watched the city from a distance at night, and wondered why I wrote no poem. Come, yes, the city is ablaze for you, and you stand and look at it. And they are right. There is no good in the world except out of a woman, and certain women alone for certain things. But what if I arrive like a turtle with my house on my back, or a fish ogling from under water? It will not do. I must be steaming with love, colored like a flamingo.

"'For what? To have legs and a silly head, and to smell, pah, like a flamingo that soils its own feathers behind? Must I go home filled with a bad poem?' And they say, "'Who can answer these things till he has tried? Your eyes are half closed. You are a child. Oh, sweet one, ready to play, but I will make a man of you, and with love on his shoulder.'

and in the marshes the crickets run on the sunny dyke's top and make burrows there the water reflects the reeds and the reeds move on their stalks and rattle dryly youth and beauty i bought a dish mop

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 stick slender at the neck straight tall when tied upright on the brass wall-bracket to be a light for me and naked as a girl should seem to her father the thinker my wife's new pink slippers have gay pom-poms there's not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides

All night they lie together under her bed's edge, shivering. I catch sight of them and smile in the morning. Later I watch them descending the stair, hurrying through the doors and round the table, moving stiffly with a shake of their gay pom-poms. And I talk to them, in my secret mind out of pure happiness, the disputants.

upon the table in their bowl and violent disarray of yellow sprays green spikes of leaves red-pointed petals and curled heads of blue and white among the litter of the forks and crumbs and plates the flowers remain composed coolly their colloquy continues above the coffee and loud talk grown frail as vaudeville the tulip-bed

The May sun, whom all things imitate, that glued small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky through blue gauze clouds upon the ground. Under the leafy trees, where the suburban streets lay crossed with houses on each corner, tangled shadows had begun to join the roadway and the lawns. With excellent precision the tulip bed inside the iron fence

up reared its gaudy yellow white and red rimmed round with grass reposedly the birds the world begins again not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead branches of the living tree stuck fast to the low clouds notate the dawn their shrill cries sound announcing appetite and drop among the bending roses and the dripping grass the nightingales

my shoes as i lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet nimbly the shadows of my fingers play unlacing over shoes and flowers spouts in this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever i saw the fountain in madison square spouts up of water a white tree

that dies and lives as the rocking water in the basin turns from the stone rim back upon the jet and rising there reflectively drops down again. Blue Flags I stop the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge, and the reeds begin, and there are small houses facing the reeds and the blue mist in the distance with grape-vine trellises with grape clusters.

small as strawberries on the vines and ditches running spring water that continue the gutters with willows over them the reeds begin like water at a shore their pointed petals waving dark green and light but blue flags are blossoming in the reeds which the children pluck chattering in the reeds high over their heads which they part with bare arms to appear with fists of flowers till in the air there comes the smell of calamus

from wet gummy stalks the widows 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 thirty-five years i lived with my husband the plum-tree is white to-day with masses of flowers

masses of flowers load the cherry branches and color some bushes yellow and some red but the grief in my heart is stronger than they for though they were my joy formerly today i notice them and turn away forgetting today my son told me that in the meadows at the edge of the heavy woods in the distance he saw trees of white flowers i feel that i would like to go there and fall into those flowers and sink into the marsh near them

Light-hearted William. Light-hearted William twirled his November mustaches and, half-dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather. "'Hey, ya!' sighed he gaily, leaning out to see up and down the street, where a heavy sunlight lay beyond some blue shadows. Into the room he drew his head again and laughed to himself quietly, twirling his green mustaches. Portrait of the Author

The birches are mad with green points. The wood's edge is burning with their green. Burning. Seething. No. No. No. The birches are opening their leaves, one by one. Their delicate leaves unfold, cold and separate, one by one. Slender tassels hang swaying from the delicate branched tips. Oh, I cannot say it. There is no word. Black is split at once into flowers.

in every bog and ditch flares of small fire white flowers ugh the birches are mad mad with their green the world is gone torn into shreds with this blessing what have i left undone that i should have undertaken oh my brother you red-faced living man ignorant stupid whose feet are upon the same dirt that i touch and eat

we are alone in this terror alone face to face on this road you and i wrapped by this flame let the polished plows stay idle their gloss already on the black soil but that face of yours answer me i will clutch you i will hug you grip you i will poke my face into your face and force you to see me

take me in your arms tell me the commonest thing that is in your mind to say say anything i will understand you it is the madness of the birch leaves opening cold one by one my rooms will receive me but my rooms are no longer sweet spaces where comfort is ready to wait on me with its crumbs

A darkness has brushed them. The mass of yellow tulips in the bowl is shrunken. Every familiar object is changed and dwarfed. I'm shaken, broken against a might that splits comfort, blows apart my careful partitions, crushes my house and leaves me with shrinking heart and startled empty eyes, peering out into a cold world. In the spring I would be drunk and lie forgetting all things. Your face—give me your face—

"Yeng Kwe Faye, your hands, your lips to drink. Give me your wrists to drink. I drag you. I am drowned in you. You overwhelm me. Drink. Save me. The shadbush is in the edge of the clearing. The yards in a fury of lilac blossoms are driving me mad with terror. Drink and lie forgetting the world. And coldly the birch leaves are opening, one by one. Coldly I observe them and wait for the end. And it ends.

The Lonely Street School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the streets to wild the time away. They have grown tall. They hold pink flames in their right hands, in white from head to foot, with side-long idle look and yellow floating stuff, black sash and stockings, touching their avid mouths with pink sugar on a stick, like a carnation each holds in her hand. They mount the Lonely Street.

THE GREAT FIGURE Among the rain and lights I saw the figure five in gold on a red fire-truck moving with weight and urgency. Tense, unheeded, to gong clangs, siren howls and wheels rumbling through the dark city. END OF SOUR GRAPES PART TWO END OF SOUR GRAPES BY WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS

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