And its restless iteration,

In the place of the solitaires,

Which is to be a place of perpetual undulation.

The Paltry Nude Starts on a Spring Voyage

But not on a shell, she starts,

Archaic, for the sea.

But on the first-found weed

She scuds the glitters,

Noiselessly, like one more wave.

She too is discontent

And would have purple stuff upon her arms,

Tired of the salty harbors,

Eager for the brine and bellowing

Of the high interiors of the sea.

The wind speeds her,

Blowing upon her hands

And watery back.

She touches the clouds, where she goes

In the circle of her traverse of the sea.

Yet this is meagre play

In the scrurry and water-shine,

As her heels foam—

Not as when the goldener nude

Of a later day

Will go, like the centre of sea-green pomp,

In an intenser calm,

Scullion of fate,

Across the spick torrent, ceaselessly,

Upon her irretrievable way.

Infanta Marina

Her terrace was the sand

And the palms and the twilight.

She made of the motions of her wrist

The grandiose gestures

Of her thought.

The rumpling of the plumes

Of this creature of the evening

Came to be sleights of sails

Over the sea.

And thus she roamed

In the roamings of her fan,

Partaking of the sea,

And of the evening,

As they flowed around

And uttered their subsiding sound.

Cortège for Rosenbloom

Now, the wry Rosenbloom is dead

And his finical carriers tread,

On a hundred legs, the tread

Of the dead.

Rosenbloom is dead.

They carry the wizened one

Of the color of horn

To the sullen hill,

Treading a tread

In unison for the dead.

Rosenbloom is dead.

The tread of the carriers does not halt

On the hill, but turns

Up the sky.

They are bearing his body into the sky.

It is the infants of misanthropes

And the infants of nothingness

That tread

The wooden ascents

Of the ascending of the dead.

It is turbans they wear

And boots of fur

As they tread the boards

In a region of frost,

Viewing the frost;

To a chirr of gongs

And a chitter of cries

And the heavy thrum

Of the endless tread

That they tread;

To a jangle of doom

And a jumble of words

Of the intense poem

Of the strictest prose

Of Rosenbloom.

And they bury him there,

Body and soul,

In a place in the sky.

The lamentable tread!

Rosenbloom is dead.

The Man Whose Pharynx Was Bad

The time of year has grown indifferent.

Mildew of summer and the deepening snow

Are both alike in the routine I know.

I am too dumbly in my being pent.

The wind attendant on the solstices

Blows on the shutters of the metropoles,

Stirring no poet in his sleep, and tolls

The grand ideas of the villages.

The malady of the quotidian …

Perhaps, if summer ever came to rest

And lengthened, deepened, comforted, caressed

Through days like oceans in obsidian

Horizons full of night’s midsummer blaze;