Angry men and furious machines

Another sunlight might make another world,

Ariel was glad he had written his poems.

As the immense dew of Florida

At night, by the fiire,

At the antipodes of poetry, dark winter,

At the earliest ending of winter,

Barque of phosphor

Brooder, brooder, deep beneath its walls—

But not on a shell, she starts,

Call the roller of big cigars,

Canaries in the morning, orchestras

Chief Iffucan of Azcan in caftan

Children picking up our bones

Clear water in a brilliant bowl,

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late

Day creeps down. The moon is creeping up.

Day is the children’s friend.

Every thread of summer is at last unwoven.

Every time the bucks went clattering

Finally, in the last year of her age,

Force is my lot and not pink-clustered

Gloomy grammarians in golden gowns,

Go on, high ship, since now, upon the shore,

God and all angels sing the world to sleep,

He is not here, the old sun,

He never felt twice the same about the flecked river,

He was at Naples writing letters home

Her terrace was the sand

His place, as he sat and as he thought, was not

Home from Guatemala, back at the Waldorf.

How does one stand

How mad would he have to be to say, “He beheld

I care for neither fugues nor feathers.

I figured you as nude between

I had as lief be embraced by the porter at the hotel

I placed a jar in Tennessee,

I wonder, have I lived a skeleton’s life,

If from the earth we came, it was an earth

If the poetry of X was music,

If there is a man white as marble

If there must be a god in the house, must be,

In his packet Anacharsis found the lines:

In Hydaspia, by Howzen,

In Oklahoma,

In that November off Tehuantepec,

In the far South the sun of autumn is passing

In the land of turkeys in turkey weather

In the moonlight

In the weed of summer comes this green sprout why.

Is it Ulysses that approaches from the east,

It is an illusion that we were ever alive,

It is difficult to read. The page is dark.

It is equal to living in a tragic land

It is only that this warmth and movement are like

It is posed and it is posed.

It is possible that to seem—it is to be,

It is the word pejorative that hurts.

It is time that beats in the breast and it is time

It makes so little difference, at so much more

It was when I said,

It’s a strange courage

Just as my fingers on these keys

Last Friday, in the big light of last Friday night,

Let the place of the solitaires

Life contracts and death is expected,

Light the first light of evening, as in a room

Long-tailed ponies go nosing the pine-lands,

Look in the terrible mirror of the sky

Look round, brown moon, brown bird, as you rise to fly,