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Very well, you liberals, And navigators into realms intellectual, You sailors through heights imaginative, Blown about by erratic currents, tumbling into air pockets, You Margaret Fuller Slacks, Petits, And Tennessee Claflin Shopes— You found with all your boasted wisdom How hard at the last it is To keep the soul from splitting into cellular atoms. While we, seekers of earth's treasures Getters and hoarders of gold, Are self-contained, compact, harmonized, Even to the end.

S TUDY IN W HITES Wax-white— Floor, ceiling, walls. Ivory shadows Over the pavement Polished to cream surfaces By constant sweeping. The big room is coloured like the petals Of a great magnolia, And has a patina Of flower bloom Which makes it shine dimly Under the electric lamps. Chairs are ranged in rows Like sepia seeds Waiting fulfilment. The chalk-white spot of a cook’s cap Moves unglossily against the vaguely bright wall— Dull chalk-white striking the retina like a blow Thru the wavering uncertainty of steam. Vitreous-white of glasses with green reflections, Ice-green carboys, shifting—greener, bluer—with the jar of moving water. Jagged green-white bowls of pressed glass Rearing snow-peaks of chipped sugar Above the lighthouse-shaped castors Of grey pepper and grey-white salt. Grey-white placards: “Oyster Stew, Cornbeef Hash, Frankfurters”: Marble slabs veined with words in meandering lines. Dropping on the white counter like horn notes Through a web of violins, The flat yellow lights of oranges, The cube-red splashes of apples, In high plated épergnes. The electric clock jerks every half-minute: “Coming!—Past!” “Three beef-steaks and a chicken-pie,” Bawled through a slide while the clock jerks heavily. A man carries a china mug of coffee to a distant chair. Two rice puddings and a salmon salad Are pushed over the counter; The unfulfilled chairs open to receive them. A spoon falls upon the floor with the impact of metal striking stone, And the sound throws across the room Sharp, invisible zigzags Of silver.

To thwart? To abet? To mete? Quixotic cobbler, spread apocryphal mendacity from Styx to Mt. Dix. Yoke check to bank, broadcast flaccid gospel. Raze it! Scorch it! It’s summertime in Mendocino. Ah, poke stigmatized feet-stank. Quotidian Stygian, pack funk-stuffed rucksacks into boats of dope(d) diction. Fuck Friday. Yes,you, Freya. Be fazed.

That oily bale of rags, lost to the silent architectures of the wood— or so it seemed, as the fall’s chancels darkened, and rough earth gave and forgave. Forgave, I mean, the intrusion.

Everything dies. Without you I saw one million flamingos ignite a lake in Africa. The same darkness descended everywhere. When you dropped your body, I hoped you would tremble for the beak of God. Why did we wash you three times tearing off the girl’s white dress to swaddle you in an austere shroud? Some say, dying, not death, teaches. You gained nothing from that reduction. Months in the narrow foxhole of disease– you dug it; we filled it in. My father is thin as you were in his hospital bed, both of you let everything go, care for nothing except that barbed hook– life. It grabbed you like a thorn until you begged me, “Pull it out.”

I “There is a Thorn—it looks so old, In truth, you’d find it hard to say How it could ever have been young, It looks so old and grey. Not higher than a two years' child It stands erect, this aged Thorn; No leaves it has, no prickly points; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn. It stands erect, and like a stone With lichens is it overgrown. II “Like rock or stone, it is o’ergrown, With lichens to the very top, And hung with heavy tufts of moss, A melancholy crop: Up from the earth these mosses creep, And this poor Thorn they clasp it round So close, you’d say that they are bent With plain and manifest intent To drag it to the ground; And all have joined in one endeavour To bury this poor Thorn for ever. III “High on a mountain’s highest ridge, Where oft the stormy winter gale Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds It sweeps from vale to vale; Not five yards from the mountain path, This Thorn you on your left espy; And to the left, three yards beyond, You see a little muddy pond Of water—never dry, Though but of compass small, and bare To thirsty suns and parching air. IV “And, close beside this aged Thorn, There is a fresh and lovely sight, A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, Just half a foot in height. All lovely colours there you see, All colours that were ever seen; And mossy network too is there, As if by hand of lady fair The work had woven been; And cups, the darlings of the eye, So deep is their vermilion dye. V “Ah me! what lovely tints are there Of olive green and scarlet bright, In spikes, in branches, and in stars, Green, red, and pearly white! This heap of earth o’ergrown with moss, Which close beside the Thorn you see, So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, Is like an infant’s grave in size, As like as like can be: But never, never any where, An infant’s grave was half so fair. VI “Now would you see this aged Thorn, This pond, and beauteous hill of moss, You must take care and choose your time The mountain when to cross. For oft there sits between the heap, So like an infant’s grave in size, And that same pond of which I spoke, A Woman in a scarlet cloak, And to herself she cries, ‘Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!’ VII “At all times of the day and night This wretched Woman thither goes; And she is known to every star, And every wind that blows; And there, beside the Thorn, she sits When the blue daylight’s in the skies, And when the whirlwind’s on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, And to herself she cries, ‘Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!’ ” VIII “Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, In rain, in tempest, and in snow, Thus to the dreary mountain-top Does this poor Woman go? And why sits she beside the Thorn When the blue daylight’s in the sky Or when the whirlwind’s on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, And wherefore does she cry?— O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why Does she repeat that doleful cry?” IX “I cannot tell; I wish I could; For the true reason no one knows: But would you gladly view the spot, The spot to which she goes; The hillock like an infant’s grave, The pond—and Thorn, so old and grey; Pass by her door—’tis seldom shut— And if you see her in her hut— Then to the spot away! I never heard of such as dare Approach the spot when she is there.” X “But wherefore to the mountain-top Can this unhappy Woman go, Whatever star is in the skies, Whatever wind may blow?” “Full twenty years are past and gone Since she (her name is Martha Ray) Gave with a maiden’s true good-will Her company to Stephen Hill; And she was blithe and gay, While friends and kindred all approved Of him whom tenderly she loved. XI “And they had fixed the wedding day, The morning that must wed them both; But Stephen to another Maid Had sworn another oath; And, with this other Maid, to church Unthinking Stephen went— Poor Martha! on that woeful day A pang of pitiless dismay Into her soul was sent; A fire was kindled in her breast, Which might not burn itself to rest. XII “They say, full six months after this, While yet the summer leaves were green, She to the mountain-top would go, And there was often seen. What could she seek?—or wish to hide? Her state to any eye was plain; She was with child, and she was mad; Yet often was she sober sad From her exceeding pain. O guilty Father—would that death Had saved him from that breach of faith! XIII “Sad case for such a brain to hold Communion with a stirring child! Sad case, as you may think, for one Who had a brain so wild! Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen Held that the unborn infant wrought About its mother’s heart, and brought Her senses back again: And, when at last her time drew near, Her looks were calm, her senses clear. XIV “More know I not, I wish I did, And it should all be told to you; For what became of this poor child No mortal ever knew; Nay—if a child to her was born No earthly tongue could ever tell; And if ’twas born alive or dead, Far less could this with proof be said; But some remember well, That Martha Ray about this time Would up the mountain often climb. XV “And all that winter, when at night The wind blew from the mountain-peak, ’Twas worth your while, though in the dark, The churchyard path to seek: For many a time and oft were heard Cries coming from the mountain head: Some plainly living voices were; And others, I’ve heard many swear, Were voices of the dead: I cannot think, whate’er they say, They had to do with Martha Ray. XVI “But that she goes to this old Thorn, The Thorn which I described to you, And there sits in a scarlet cloak, I will be sworn is true. For one day with my telescope, To view the ocean wide and bright, When to this country first I came, Ere I had heard of Martha’s name, I climbed the mountain’s height:— A storm came on, and I could see No object higher than my knee. XVII “ ’Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain: No screen, no fence could I discover; And then the wind! in sooth, it was A wind full ten times over. I looked around, I thought I saw A jutting crag,—and off I ran, Head-foremost, through the driving rain, The shelter of the crag to gain; And, as I am a man, Instead of jutting crag, I found A Woman seated on the ground. XVIII “I did not speak—I saw her face; Her face!—it was enough for me; I turned about and heard her cry, ‘Oh misery! oh misery!’ And there she sits, until the moon Through half the clear blue sky will go; And when the little breezes make The waters of the pond to shake, As all the country know, She shudders, and you hear her cry, ‘Oh misery! oh misery!’ ” XIX “But what’s the Thorn? and what the pond? And what the hill of moss to her? And what the creeping breeze that comes The little pond to stir?” “I cannot tell; but some will say She hanged her baby on the tree; Some say she drowned it in the pond, Which is a little step beyond: But all and each agree, The little Babe was buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair. XX “I’ve heard, the moss is spotted red With drops of that poor infant’s blood; But kill a new-born infant thus, I do not think she could! Some say, if to the pond you go, And fix on it a steady view, The shadow of a babe you trace, A baby and a baby’s face, And that it looks at you; Whene’er you look on it, ’tis plain The baby looks at you again. XXI “And some had sworn an oath that she Should be to public justice brought; And for the little infant’s bones With spades they would have sought. But instantly the hill of moss Before their eyes began to stir! And, for full fifty yards around, The grass—it shook upon the ground! Yet all do still aver The little Babe lies buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair. XXII “I cannot tell how this may be, But plain it is the Thorn is bound With heavy tufts of moss that strive To drag it to the ground; And this I know, full many a time, When she was on the mountain high, By day, and in the silent night, When all the stars shone clear and bright, That I have heard her cry, ‘Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!’ ”

Those various sounds, consistently indistinct, like intermingled echoes struck from thin glasses successively at random— the inflection disguised: your hair, the tails of two fighting-cocks head to head in stone— like sculptured scimitars repeating the curve of your ears in reverse order: your eyes, flowers of ice and snow sown by tearing winds on the cordage of disabled ships: your raised hand an ambiguous signature: your cheeks, those rosettes of blood on the stone floors of French châteaux, with regard to which the guides are so affirmative— your other hand a bundle of lances all alike, partly hid by emeralds from Persia and the fractional magnificence of Florentine goldwork—a collection of little objects— sapphires set with emeralds, and pearls with a moonstone, made fine with enamel in gray, yellow, and dragonfly blue; a lemon, a pear and three bunches of grapes, tied with silver: your dress, a magnificent square cathedral tower of uniform and at the same time diverse appearance—a species of vertical vineyard, rustling in the storm of conventional opinion—are they weapons or scalpels? Whetted to brilliance by the hard majesty of that sophistication which is superior to opportunity, these things are rich instruments with which to experiment. But why dissect destiny with instruments more highly specialized than the components of destiny itself?

Those who are asleep in the earth have an avian sense of the way. Gone, they sleep with shoes on, ready to rise and go to the pink, dispensable, barefooted insomniacs who had laced up for them the last pair of shoes.

Highlight Actions Enable or disable annotations Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. breaking. / When In A Ballad of Remembrance(1962), the line between these two lines reads: "and smell the iron and velvet bloom of heat." While this line was deleted, the version in A Ballad of Remembrance is still a sonnet. There are other variants between both versions; mostly relating to where the line breaks. When breaking. / When In A Ballad of Remembrance(1962), the line between these two lines reads:"and smell the iron and velvet bloom of heat." While this line was deleted, the version in A Ballad of Remembrance is still a sonnet. There are other variants between both versions; mostly relating to where the line breaks. the rooms were warm, he’d call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had who had In A Ballad of Remembrance: who’d driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love’s austere austere Grave, sober; and lacking adornment and lonely offices?

Thou art my lute, by thee I sing,— My being is attuned to thee. Thou settest all my words a-wing, And meltest me to melody. Thou art my life, by thee I live, From thee proceed the joys I know; Sweetheart, thy hand has power to give The meed of love—the cup of woe. Thou art my love, by thee I lead My soul the paths of light along, From vale to vale, from mead to mead, And home it in the hills of song. My song, my soul, my life, my all, Why need I pray or make my plea, Since my petition cannot fall; For I’m already one with thee!