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Nobody ,it's safe to say,observed him but myself;and why? Much better than which,every woman who's despite the ultramachinations of some loveless infraworld a woman knows; and certain men quite possibly may have shall we say guessed? In spectral such hugest how hush,one dead leaf stirring makes a crash —far away as far as alive lies april;and i breathe-move-and-seem some perpetually roaming whylessness— autumn has gone:will winter never come? Then,with not credible the anywhere eclipsing of a spirit's ignorance by every wisdom knowledge fears to dare, how the myself's own self who's child will dance!

Only whose vision can create the whole being forever born a foolishwise proudhumble citizen of ecstasies more steep than climb can time with all his years he's free into the beauty of the truth; and strolls the axis of the universe —love. Where we sought For help in that with which we could do naught, You were at hand, prepared to show the way, And when we came to you in sore dismay You made most clear the path with perils fraught. Now when wefindourselves about to lose Your leadership, whose strength will ever dwell In us and by us to the very end, We know no better title we can use In wishing you afinal,fond farewell, Than that whichfitsyou best,—our faithful friend!

And now, when Nature begins to grow, And the buds are out, and the birds are gay And all is well—above and below,— Here's to the coming of blithesome May. Winter was good when he met us here, With his sharp, clear days, and hisflashingsnow, But we carried Winter out on his bier, And buried him, many a month ago. March was not hard with all his blow, With April, Spring seemed on her way, But we've reached the best at last, and so Here's to the coming of blithesome May. Winter has ended his cold career,— No more death, and no more woe,— We've come at last to a different sphere, With no more freezing, and—mistletoe. Spring in coming was very slow,— Altogether too much delay,— But we've cheered her on from foe to foe: Here's to the coming of blithesome May.

Envoi Think of the gratitude all must owe,— Heaven has visited earth to-day. It's well enough to talk of poor and peers, And munch the golden apples' shiny core, And lay a lot of heroes on their biers;— While the great Alec, knocking down a score, Takes out his handkerchief, boohoo-ing, "More! Envoi Of what avail is all my mighty lore? How shall I manage to compose a theme? Spring was good, and Summer better, But the best of all is waiting,— Madame Winter—don't forget her. Spring we welcomed when we met, Summer was a blessing; Autumn points to school, but yet Let's be acquiescing.

Spring had many precious pleasures; Winter's on a different rating; She has greater, richer treasures,— O You Skating! Gleam of ice, and glint of steel, Jolly, snappy weather; Glide on ice and joy of zeal, All, alone, together. Fickle Spring! Who can imprint her? We've found life hid between the folds of mire, Sensed life in every place, heard life in tune. The earth-shell cracks with underneath desire; Spring crawls from the cocoon. Her puny wings vibrant with will to grow, She clings, expanding like an opening eye; More large, more able, more developed, lo, The perfect butterfly. A faint beam totters feebly in the west, Trembles, and all the earth is wild with light, Stumbles, and all the world is in the dark.

The huge black sleep above;—lo, two white stars. Harvard, your shadow-walls, and ghost-toned tower, Dim, ancient-moulded, vague, and faint, and far, Is gone! And through thefleshI see the soul: Colouring iron in red leaping flame, The thunder-strokes of mighty, sweating men, Furious hammers clashingfierceand high,— And in a corner of the smithy coiled, Black, brutal, massive-linked, the toil-wrought chain Which is to bind God's right hand to the world. Huge finny forms of phosphorescence flee— Weird shadows—through the deeps, or caracole With the sea-horses on some eye-less shoal, Quickening the leafage of a wave-tombed tree. As a great miser, morbid with his gain, Pricked by unhealthy frettings, drowns dismay In gorging on his plunders, one by one,— Sudden—out of the vault of Heaven, the Sun Unlocks the rainbow's glory, and the day.

The air is strange with rare birds after rain. Such lustre, spread So livingly before our starting sight, Cries in the accents of its primal might: "This artist and his art were never dead! Oh little thrush With the holy note, Like a footstep of God in a sick-room's hush My soul you crush. Unstopped organ, from earth you break To knock at the skies, And I can but shake My fragile fetters, and with you rise Into Paradise.

But Love, your music requires not wings. To the common breed It clings, and sings: "Heaven on earth is Heaven indeed. This is my creed. A panting silence fills The empty vault of Night with shimmering bars Of sullen silver, where the lake distils Its misered bounty. No whisper mars The utter silence of the untranslated stars. Poises the sun upon his west, a spark Superlative,—and dives beneath the world; From the day's fillets Night shakes out her locks; List! One pure trembling drop of cadence purled— "Summer!

For I will have her mine! For, poorly-clad, she is strangely proud, And will not sit at the servants' board, But saith she comes of the snow. He rose from the table, red with wine; He put one hand against the wall, Swaying as he did stand; Three steps took he in the breathless hall, Said, "You shall love me, for you are mine. White stretched the north-land, white the south She was gone like a spark from the ash that chars; And "After her! They found the maid. And her eyes were stars, A starry smile was upon her mouth, And the snow-flowers in her hair. Delicious dark the hive of heaven drips; Now in the firmament all shining crowd The trembling, yearning stars, that cannot speak For perfect joy; now steals a shadowy cloud, A radiant tear, across the moon's pale cheek.

Dumbly the glorious sky yields up her lips. New skies new seasons bring. Wee red men build their lodge of yellow sands In the primeval grass; the willow stands Donned in her ermine, to be crowned with Spring. How high the sky's vast purple palace towers! And lo, the pride of majesty beguiled, With playful hands, King Winter's laughing child, Sweet April Heaven, from that royal brow Hath plucked the snowy wreath of cloud, and now Flings from her lap the million fluttering flowers.

The face Of heaven clouded with the Day's red doom Was veiled in silent darkness, and the musk Of summer's glorious rose breathed in the gloom. Then from the world's harsh voice and glittering eyes, The awful rant and roar of men and things, Forth fared we into Silence. The strong wings Of Nature shut us from the common crowd; On high, the stars like sleeping butterflies Hung from the great grey drowsyflowersof cloud. Three fragrant trees which guard the gates, Three perfume-trees which sweeten nights, Rise upon heaven, full of stars And dripping with white radiance. Her body is more white than trees. Five founts of Bacchus, honey-cold, Five showers making drunk the lawns, Spout up a dark delicious rain Filling the earth with sleep and tears.

Her tresses are more sweet than wine. Seven flowers which breathe divinity, Seven wondering blossoms of embrace, Open their glory to the moon, Kissing white immortality. Her mouth is chaster than a flower. When the fleet moonlight silently Fled like a white nymph down the grass, Leaving the night to loneliness, All songfully I loved my love In gardens of white ivory. The strings are silver to my harp, And all the frame is ebony I think the moon is blossoming— My hungry fingers bite the strings— My harp becomes a flower, and blooms. The strings are golden to my harp, And all the frame is as a rose. I think the moon is quivering— My longing fingers search the chords— My harp becomes a heart, and breaks.

When thefirstday-beam silently Broke like an arrow from the east, Quivering unto the heights of dawn, All silently I left my love In gardens of white ivory. There are three trees which stand like dreams Before the gates of ivory; The moon has withered in the west— My harp has withered—Hail the day! Wherefore this dagger at my thighs. There arefivefounts which play like sleep Upon the gates of ivory; The moon is songless in the west— My harp is songless—Hail the day! Wherefore this dagger at my hands. There are sevenflowerswhich smile like death Within the gates of ivory; The moon is broken in the west— My harp is broken—Hail the day! Wherefore this dagger at my heart. Here will I meet my love Beneath hushed trees. Over the silver meadows Offlower-foldedgrass, Shall come unto me Her feet like arrows of moonlight.

Under the magic forest Mute with shadow, I will utterly greet The blown star of her face. By white waters Sheathed in rippling silence, Shall I behold her hands Hurting the dark with lilies. Hush thee to worship, soul! Now is thy movement of love. Night; and a red cloud Under the moon. I n green cloisters throng Shy nuns of evening, telling beads of song. Swallows, like winged prayers, soar steadily by, Hallowing twilight. From the faint and high, Night waves her misting censers, and along The world, the singing rises into strong, Pure peace. Now earth and heaven twain raptures die. I knew your presence in the twilight mist, In the world-filling darkness, in the rain That spoke in whispers,—for the world was kissed And laid in sleep.

The Christlike sun Moves to his resurrection in rejoicing heights, And priestly hills partake of morning one by one. I look for you when comes the beautiful blue moon, When earth is as a queen whose soul hath taken flight, Embalmed in the entire strength of perfect light. The immense heaven, a vase of utter silence, towers Vastward, beyond where dreams the unawakened moon, Holding infinity and her invisible flowers. The hours drum up to sunset; now the west awakes To armies. Suddenly across the firmament Couriers of light spur forth their captain's high intent. Now devout legions, mustering heavenward without cease, Face the hushed hordes of night. A trumpet-radiance breaks— I see the young ranked glories marching down to peace.

Twilight, and great with silence of beginning dreams, Yet haunted still by broken hosts in brave retreat, Of blameless cohorts whelmed into sublime defeat, Which, darkly under world their ragged spears withdraw, Shall rise tofirethe night in far victorious gleams, When over the towered east leaps the white sword of dawn. So do I want you, when in heavenly spaces God Slips His white wonders on the silent trail of time; When out the smoking eve begins to slowly climb A great, red, fearsomeflower,about whose fatal face The faint moths gather and die—till withered pale, she nod Far in the west, and morn the little dreams shall chase.

Now is the world at peace; Heaven unto her heart Holdeth sublimities afar from touch of day, Presents divine the fates shall never take away, Unfaded memories, immortal ponderings, The little knock of prayer whereby are thrown apart Those inner doors which lead into all priceless things. O night, mother divine of poetry and stars! O thou whose patient face is nearest unto God, Thou of chaste feet with beautiful oblivion shod, Having the dear, swift-winged dark within thy hands,— The prison invisible of souls thy peace unbars, And love and I rise up into unspoken lands. I cried. Life, I bid thee to say. Who hath taken away Her who sate at my side. For whiter is she than any pearl; But the nights be lonely and dread. Life, what hast thou done with thy loveliest girl?

Look to the wood, She said. For the white bird, O, the white bird, Sleep he toucheth the white bird, The white bird and the red. Give me her eyes! For I would kiss them asleep, That are so cool and deep, So soft and wondering wide. Bluer are they than ponds of dream; But the skies be grey o'erhead. Life, where may the eyes of thy fairest gleam? Look to thefield,She said. For the blueflower,O, the blue flower, Night he stilleth the blue flower, The blueflowerand the red.

O, for her hair! Her young and wonderful hair, To hide my sorrow there, In the heart of a shining tide. For her hair is more yellow than Heaven's dawn; But the world's last leaves be shed. Life, where is thy youngest angel gone? Look to the west, She said. For the yellow light, O, the yellow light, Death he moweth the yellow light, The yellow light and the red. Not for the hungry has my spirit care, Whether their bodies shall befilledor no, With whom the world her bounty will not share, Wherefore they move on feeble feet and slow, Feeling dear Death within their bodies grow: Thou knowest these at pain beyond confess, For sorrow never may Thy ears transgress, Though lips be locked and pain shall hold the key; But are there Souls whom hunger doth oppress.

Be with them, God! Not for the homeless do I ask, where e'er The lights of Hell their haunting faces show, The legion undesired anywhere, Whose hearts Love shall not build in,—who shall sow And reap such loneliness as murder's woe: Thy gracious mouth to these shall acquiesce, Which is so very wonderful to bless The plundered heart with joy held long in fee; But are there Souls that know not Love's caress, Be with them God! Envoi Father, for this we thank Thee without cesse: Death is the body's birthright, as I guess, But are there Souls that walk in hopelessness, Be with them God! Ere my day be troubled of coming darkness, While the huge whole sky is elate with glory, Let me rise, and making my salutation, Stride into sunset.

Cloaked in green thunder are the sudden shores Guarding the lintel's gold, whence of the wall Leaps the white echo; and within, the fall Is heard of the eternal feet of wars. Here, at high ease, saw I those purple lords, Sipping the wine of unforgetfulness, Upon thrones intimate with all the skies: Roland, and Richard, 'mid the shining press; Leonidas, belted with living swords; And Albert, with the lions in his eyes. There is a journey, And who is for the long road Loves not to linger. For him the night calls, Out of the dawn and sunset Who has made poems.

Oh thou that mournest thy heroic dead Fallen in youth and promise gloriously, In the deep meadows of their motherland Turning the silver blossoms into gold, The valor of thy children comfort thee. Oh thou that bowest thy ecstatic face, Thy perfect sorrows are the world's to keep! Wherefore unto thy knees come we with prayer, Mother heroic, mother glorious, Beholding in thy eyes immortal tears. Or is the world so wide That souls may easily forget their speech, And the strong love that binds us each to each Who have stood together watching God's white tide Pouring, and those bright shapes of dreams which ride Through darkness; we who have walked the silent beach Strown with strange wonders out of ocean's reach Which the nextfloodin her great heart shall hide?

Do not forget me, though the sands should fall, And many things be swept away in deep, And a new vision uttered to the shore,— If after days bespeak me not at all, Nor other's praise awake my song from sleep, Nor Poetry remember, anymore. A cette intervention se seraient jointes les troupes de Wrangle qui auraient traverse la Roumanie A leur retour de la con- ference energetique de Londres, se rendant en U.

Dans l'organisation de I'intervention le role directeur appartient a la France qui en a conduit la preparation avec l'aide active du Gouvernement anglais In the organization of the intervention the chief role belongs to France which has pre- pared it with the active aid of the English government But when it rains chickens we'll all catch larks —to borrow a phrase from Karl the Marks. As a child he was puny;shrank from noise hated the girls and mistrusted the boise, didn't like whisky,learned to spell and generally seemed to be going to hell; so his parents,encouraged by desperation, gave him a classical education and went to sleep in their boots again out in the land where women are main. You know the rest:a critic of note, a serious thinker,a lyrical pote, lectured on Art from west to east —did sass-seyeity fall for it?

But every bathtub will have its gin and one man's sister's another man's sin and a hand in the bush is a stitch in time and Aint It All A Bloody Shime and he suffered a fate which is worse than death and I don't allude to unpleasant breath. For what did our intellectual do, when he found himself so empty and bio? Not I am a fake,but America's phoney! Not I am no artist,but Art's bologney! Or—briefly to paraphrase Karl the Marx— 'The first law of nature is,trees will be parx. For whoso conniveth at Lenin his dream shall dine upon bayonets,isn't and seam and a miss is as good as a mile is best for if you're not bourgeois you're Eddie Gest and wastelands live and waistlines die, which I very much hope it won't happen to eye; or as comrade Shakespeare remarked of old All that Glisters Is Mike Gold but a rolling snowball gathers no sparks —and the same hold true of Karl the Marks.

A warm, serene, soft heaven gazes down With dreamy eyes upon thefiend-crampedworld. The rosy eastern glow, the sun's I Come, Patters about the sky, and coos, and smiles— Sweet babe with tender, rose-begetting feet. From a black corpse of tree, the hideous rasp Of staring grackles, clucking and bowing each In drivelling salute, splits the soft air To inharmonious fragments; everywhere A nervous, endless, hoarse, incessant chirp Of sparrows telling all the evil news.

Ah, God—for the flower-air of Spring! To see The world in bud! To press with eager feet The dear, soft, thrilling green again! To be Once more in touch with heaven upon earth! One soul-toned thrush's perfect harmony, One little warbler's huge felicity, One buttercup! One perfect butterfly! Fine as cloth Moon-spun on elfin loom,each filmy wall, Light as a buoyant cloudlet's feathery froth, Frail as a lily's face,soft as a silver moth. Ill Night shall eat these girls and boys. Time makes his meal of thee and me.

Love a broken doll shall be; the moon and sun like tired toys with all whereat joined hearts rejoice shall drop softly into the sea. Night shall eat these girls and boys. Love,lady,prizeth wisely thee; whose white and little hand annoys the universal death,pardi: whose most white body is his voice. O Pilgrim of green springtide and blue skies, Thy heart is dear to men of every age, All sympathy is in thy withered page, Whose soul was singing ere thy hand was wise. Ye spell, Beaneath his feet who walked in Heaven and Hell, "L'ltalia.

Terrible, beautiful face, from whose pale lip Anathema hurtled upon the world, Stern mask, we read thee as an open scroll: What if this mouth Hate's bitter smile has curled? These eyes have known Love's starry fellowship; Behind which trembles the tremendous soul. On earth thou knew'st me not; Steadfast through all the storms of passion,thou, True to thy muse,and virgin to thy vow; Resigned,if name with ashes were forgot, So thou one arrow in the gold had'st shot!

I never placed my laurel on thy brow, But on thy name I come to lay it now, When thy bones wither in the earthly plot. Fame is my name. I dwell among the clouds, Being immortal,and the wreath I bring Itself is Immortality. The sweets Of earth I know not,more the pains,but wing In mine own ether,with the crowned crowds Born of the centuries. Centuries wheel and pass, And generations wither into dust; Royalty is the vulgar food of rust, Valor and fame, their days be as the grass; What of today? These treasures of rare love and costing lust Shall the tomorrow reckon mold and must, Ere, stricken of time, itself shall cry alas. Sole sits majestic Death, high lord of change; And Life, a little pinch of frankincense, Sweetens the certain passing LOVE POEMS I I have looked upon thee—and I have loved thee, Loved thy mouth, whose curve is the moon's young crescent, Loved thy beauty-blossoming eyes, and eyelids Petal-like, perfect; I would brush the dew in a flashing rainbow From thy face's twain mysterious flowers, And, supremely throned on the lips' full luna, Soar into Heaven.

Are you not with me at all times, faithfully standing, The soul of that golden prelude which is the childhood of day, By each imperishable stanza called a moment, Unto the splendid close, glory and light, envoi, Followed with stars? Verily you were near to me, To watch the strong boy-swallows carolling in sunset, To barter day and thought for night and ecstasy, To dream great dreams, you of my heart; to live great lives.

You are the sunset. You are the long night of peace. And dawn is of you, a thrilling glory frightening stars. Ill Thy face is a still white house of holy things, Graced with the quiet glory of thy hair. Upon thy perfect forehead the sweet air Hath laid her beauty where girlhood clings. Thine eyes are quivering celestial springs Of naked immortality, and there God hath Hope, where those twin angels stare, That sometimes sleep beneath their sheltering wings. The seals of love on those strong lips of thine Are perfect still; thy cheeks await their kiss. Thou art all virginal; God made thee His. Lost in the unreal life, the deathful din, Man bows himself before the Only Shrine— Who shall go in, O God—who shall go in?

A cup of sorrowful incense, A tree of keen leaves, An eager high ship, A quiver of superb arrows. What is thy breast to me? A flower of new prayer, A poem of firm light, A well of cool birds, A drawn bow trembling. What is thy body to me? A theatre of perfect silence, A chariot of red speed; And O, the dim feet Of white-maned desires! Over the high earth Valleys bring it forth, And it is found upon mountains. The white rose my soul Knoweth all winds and wings, All nests, all songs, With each smiling star, And every graceful day.

The white rose my soul Is under the world's feet. Only thou dost hold, In that how little hand, The red rose my heart. I love you For your wide child eyes,and fluttering hands, For the little divinities your wrists, And the beautiful mysteries your fingers. I love you. Does the blossom study her day of life? Is the butterfly vexed with an hour of soul? I had rather a rose than live forever. VII After your poppied hair inaugurates Twilight, with earnest of what pleading pearls; After the carnal vine your beauty curls Upon me, with such tingling opiates As immobile my literal flesh awaits; Ere the attent wind spiritual whirls Upward the murdered throstles and the merles Of that prompt forest which your smile creates; Pausing, I lift my eyes as best I can, Where twain frail candles close their single arc Upon a water-colour by Cezanne.

But you, love thirsty, breathe across the gleam; For total terror of the actual dark Changing the shy equivalents of dream. He is not, as you know, afraid of the dark, And has unaided captured many stars. The same tent expects your coming, Moon-in-the-Trees. You remember how the spruce smelled sweet When the dawn was full of little birds? In the ears of my days Is a thunder of accomplished rivers; In the nostrils of my nights An incense of irrevocable mountains. IX When thou art dead,dead,and far from the splendid sin, And the fleshless soul whines at the steep of the last abyss To leave forever its heart acold in an earthy bed, When,forth of the body which loved my body,the soul-within Comes,naked from the pitiless metamorphosis, What shall it say to mine,when we are dead,dead?

When I am dead,dead, and they have laid thee in, The body my lips so loved given to worms to kiss, And the cool smooth throat,and bright hair of the head—. Come with me, then, And we'll leave it far and far away— Only you and I, understand! You have played, I think And broke the toys you were fondest of, And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break, and— Just tired.

So am I. But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight, And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart— Open to me! Ah, come with me! I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon, That floats forever and a day; I'll sing you the jacinth song Of the probable stars; I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream, Until I find the Only Flower, Which shall keep I think your little heart While the moon comes out of the sea. XI Let us lie here in the disturbing grass, And slowly grow together under the sky Sucked frail by Spring,whose meat is thou,and I, This hurrying tree,and yonder pausing mass Hitched to time scarcely,eager to surpass Space:for the day decides;0 let us lie Receiving deepness, Hearing,over The poised,rushing night ring in the brim Of Heaven;then,perpendicular odors stealing Through curtains of new loosened dark;and one— As the unaccountable bright sun Becomes the horizon— Bird,nearly lost,lost;wheeling,wheeling.

Sailed July, Auf wiedersehen! We part a litde while, Friends alway, till what time we meet again. Of this our life, the hours of sun and rain, No palest flower the future can beguile; Then let him frown his frown or smile his smile! There are some things which have not lived in vain, These which have made us men and which remain, Tho' tide and time be lost 'twixt mile and mile. Fear not, for thou shalt speak with me, my friend, Who care not if this little journey's end Lie past so great a gulf as never yields One smallest murmur. In Memory of Claude o'Dreams Behold, I have taken at thy hands immortal wine The fume whereof is ecstasy of perfect pain, Which is more sweet than flowers unknown uttered of rain, More potent than the fumbling might of the brute of brine.

Lo, my pale soul is blown upon far peaks with thine, Steeped in star-terrible silence, at whose feet the plain Murmurs of thought and time's illimitable refrain, Upon whose brows eternity setteth high sign. This thing hath been, by grace; one music in our souls, One fane beyond the world, whence riseth sacrifice Unto that god whom gifts invisible appease. So be it when sunset's golden diapaison rolls. Over our life—then shalt thou, smiling, touch the keys, And draw me softly with thee into Paradise. Ill Softly from its still lair in Plympton Street It stole on silent pads, and, raping space, Shot onward in a fierce infernal race, And shivered townward on revolving feet, Skidded, fortuitously indiscreet; And now a lady doth its bosom grace, And now the 'phone, tingling its wild disgrace, Telleth that hearts be broke and time is fleet.

O Watson, born beneath a generous star, Oft have I seen thee draped upon a bar; Thou might'st have slain us with a bloody couteau And, O Watson, moriturus te saluto, Infinite in thy fair beatitude; But you could not do anything so rude. O friend, who hast attained thyself in her, Thy wife, the almost woman whose tresses are The stranger part of sunlight, in the far Nearness of whose frail eyes instantly stir Unchristian perfumes more remote than myrrh, Whose smiling is the swiftly singular Adventure of one inadvertent star, With angels previously a loiterer, Friend, who dost thy unfearing soul pervert From the perfection of its constancy To that unspeakable fellowship of Art— Receive the complete pardon of my heart, Who dost thy friend a little while desert For the sensation of eternity.

They have hung the lake with moth-wings, Blurs of purple, and shaggy warmths of gold, Lazy curious wines, and curving curds of silver. They have hung my heart with a sunset, Lilting flowers, and feathered cageless flames, Death and love: ashes of roses, ashes of angels. II A painted wind has sprung Clean of the rotten dark, Lancing the glutted wolves of rain. The sky is carried by a blue assault. Strident with sun the heights swarm, The vasts bulge with banners. Working angels Shovel light in heaven. To carnival, to carnival, In ribbons of red fire, With spokes of golden laughter, God drives the jingling world. With tilted lips and dancing throat shall you sing them, The songs my poems.

You shall dream my dreams, O world. Locked in the shining house of beautiful sleep, Of the dreams my poems. You shall smile my smile, love. My eyes, my eyes have stroked the bird of your soul, The bird my poems. I saw two rah-rahs—caps, soft shirts, Match-legs, the kind of face that hurts, The walk that makes death sweet—Ted Gore And Alec Ross; they had that whore Mary between them. It broke instead On old man Davenport's bald head. I picked a platter up, one-handed. Right on her new straw lid it landed. Cheest, what a crash! Before you knew, Ted slipped the management a new Crisp five, and everyone sat down But May, that said I'd spoiled her gown, And me, that blubbered on her shoulder, And kissed her shiny nose, and told her I didn't mean to smash her Crowst, But I was beautifully soused!

I think Al called me "good old sport," And three smokes lugged out Davenport. Experiments, I The awful darkness of the town crushes;in rows houses every one a different shade of brown unity in variety,I suppose. It almost snows: inside,the silly people are teaing with bread-and-butter sandwiches talking of the weather,and who married whom the sons of b—s —thin smiles glue the pasteboard faces,and prevent sawdust from pouring out of this chink or that.

The gloom is flat, as a poor pancake is flat;"My dear,our church sent three thousand bandages only last week to those poor soldiers"—Whew! But I'm going into the Parthenon to lap yaoorti with my eyes shut tight. Goodbye Cambridge. I'm going in to see Nichol,and devour shishkabob what 's the time? I must be moving on, leaving the houses-all-alike thank God and I guess I'll drop in and get Mike to give me a high.

II through the tasteless minute efficient room march hexameters of unpleasant twilight,a twilight smelling of Vergil, as me bang to and from the huggering rags of white Latin flesh which her body sometimes isn't all night,always,a warm incessant gush of furious Paris flutters up the hill, cries somethings laughters loves nothings float upward,beautifully,forces crazily rhyme, Montmartre s'amuse!

Ill my deathly body's deadly lady smoothly-foolish exquisitely,tooled becoming exactly passionate Gladly grips with chuckles of supreme sex my mute-articulate protrusion Inviting my gorgeous bullet to vex the fooling groove intuitive She stands greenly over the flat pasteboard hill with a little pink road like a stand of spilled saw-dust. The sentinel who walks asle ep under apple-trees yawns. The low-paying ones are items that you can find in most vampire stories. These include a skull with a scroll, a blood-filled hourglass, a heart-shaped red perfume bottle, a ruby brooch, a ruby ring, and a spider-shaped gem. High-paying symbols are the four characters of this tale.

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