the back wings
of the
hospital where
nothing
will grow lie
cinders
In which shine
the broken
pieces of a green
bottle
by William Carlos Williams
Between Walls
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Monthly Archives: September 2012
In a Station of the Metro
The apparition of these faces in the crowd :
Petals on a wet, black bough .
by Ezra Pound
Sea Rose
Rose, harsh rose,
marred and with stint of petals,
meagre flower, thin,
sparse of leaf,
more precious
than a wet rose
single on a stem—
you are caught in the drift.
Stunted, with small leaf,
you are flung on the sand,
you are lifted
in the crisp sand
that drives in the wind.
Can the spice-rose
drip such acrid fragrance
hardened in a leaf?
by Hilda Doolittle
John D. Rockefeller, Jr.:
The American Beauty Rose can be produced in the splendor and fragrance which bring cheer to its beholder only by sacrificing the early buds which grow up around it. This is not an evil tendency in business. It is merely the working-out of a law of nature and a law of God.
I taste a liquor never brewed
I taste a liquor never brewed —
From Tankards scooped in Pearl —
Not all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of Air — am I —
And Debauchee of Dew —
Reeling — thro endless summer days —
From inns of Molten Blue —
When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door —
When Butterflies — renounce their “drams” —
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats —
And Saints — to windows run —
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the — Sun —
by Emily Dickinson
Danse Russe
Smell
Oh strong-ridged and deeply hollowed
nose of mine! what will you not be smelling?
Song of Myself
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains
of my gab and my loitering.
#1705
Volcanoes be in Sicily
And South America
I judge from my Geography —
Volcanos nearer here
A Lava step at any time
Am I inclined to climb —
A Crater I may contemplate
Vesuvius at Home
by Emily Dickinson
#556
The Brain, within its Groove
Runs evenly–and true–
But let a Splinter swerve–
‘Twere easier for You–
To put a Current back–
When Floods have slit the Hills–
And scooped a Turnpike for Themselves–
And trodden out the Mills–
by Emily Dickinson
Tell All the Truth But Tell It Slant
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant—
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightening to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind—
by Emily Dickinson