What still peace is. I need the voice of the sedges That knows not any of the old earth yearning And its cry, but is quiet, Like the air and the water. Arthur L. Phelps THE SCREECH OWL He sits all day in a cemetery tree, The damp of sinking graves upon his breath; Rare tomes of wit-"dry wit," he seems to say. Or so, when as a boy I heard his cry Grate the harp-strings of night, I thought it was; As on that night I saw a dear friend die, Le MÉDECIN MALGRÉ LUI Oh I suppose I should Wash the walls of my office, My instruments and keep them Definitely in order; Build shelves in The little laboratory; Empty out the old stains, Clean the bottles And refill them; buy Another lens; put My journals on edge instead of Letting them lie flat In heaps then begin Ten years back and Gradually Read them to date, : Articles for ready reference. I suppose I should Read the new books. If to this I added A bill at the tailor's And the cleaner's And grew a decent beard And cultivated a look Of importance L 3 William Carlos Williams Who can tell? I might be A credit to my Lady Happiness But a white thought! William Carlos Williams PLUMS It is a waste of time to talk to my cousin about his plums, Though I know— standing on the path with the sun in my hair I make a sufficiently pleasing picture. The plums are soft with bloom, and luscious purple— He would throw them, showering rain-drops, into my lap, Slide his arm round my waist and-probably-kiss me. Shall I go, I wonder?— No, I will have none of these things. P. T. R. TO A PHRASE I have been combing the sands of my thought for you— You Who left me the trace of your fragrance In lieu of yourself, A pungency as of sandalwood, Or things lain long in lavender, But of a stabbing sweetness. Now that I have found yoù, Which once delighted me, Has faded in the wash of many tides. Yet you can still Sting the tears to my eyes, Little Phrase-someone-said-to-me-long-ago, Who might have meant so much But who meant so little. But I think— I have untangled you from the seaweed of forgotten things, I think I shall toss you back into the sea! 1 Hazel Hall Marie Laurencin !— KALEIDOSCOPE IN THE FRAIL WOOD How she likened them to young gazelles Full of delicate trembling-shy, tender, suspecting, Les yeux de gazelles!—glimmering, provocative Light zephyrs hover over the edges of frail lace, Great bird-swings poised at the nape of the childish neck Stepping out upon the edges of a world too bright |