Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
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Mending wall
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Category Archives: other things
Young Woman at a Window
While she sits
there
with tears on
her cheek
her cheek on
her hand
this little child
who robs her
knows nothing of
his theft
but rubs his
nose
by William Carlos Williams
MALACHITE.
The sudden spoon is the same in no size. The sudden spoon is the wound in the decision.
by Gertrude Stein
hokku
“The fallen blossom flies back to its branch:
A butterfly.”
Between Walls
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
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?