And-a-pom-pom-pom, and-a Wise John, and his son, wise John, And-a-fee and-a-fee and-a-fee Voilà la vie, la vie, la vie, And-a-rummy-tummy-tum And-a-rummy-tummy-tum. IX La mort du soldat est près des choses naturelles. (5 mars) Life contracts and death is expected, As in a season of autumn. The soldier falls. He does not become a three-days' personage, Imposing his separation, Calling for pomp. Death is absolute and without memorial, As in a season of autumn, When the wind stops. When the wind stops and, over the heavens, The clouds go, nevertheless, In their direction. Wallace Stevens WEATHER WHIMS THOUGHTS Quicksilver thoughts Flirt with me these spring days; Flit through my head, Slip through my fingers; Teasing, vanish Before I have touched them. But if I were a poet I'd know a trick to catch them! I'd catch them with a spirit noose. And then I'd let the wild things go. EARLY SPRING NIGHT The cool spring night smells good, Smells of the brown earth And the strong little seeds Pushing up through the brown earth. My soul swells with thoughts Impalpable, Melancholy, exalted, Blurring me. The soft scarce-stirring wind moves through my hair. Perhaps they are not thoughts, Those impalpable things which stir my soul. Perhaps they are my senses Pushing up like the strong little seeds Through the brown earth. MIDNIGHT RAIN The lightning pricks my heavy eyes awake. My body, thunderstung Out of its sluggish sleep, Resents this midnight waking. But soon The long soft sibilant rain Brings to the night a deep new rest. The storm recedes, And on the far warm low voluptuous thunder I am rolled back to sleep. WIND AND MOONLIGHT The Wind's a brute, a monster, Shrieking and yelling about my house; Tearing at the walls with frantic iron claws, Striking with frenzied panicked paws At my windows. I'm glad it has no mind As it freaks about my room Safe from its maniac mood. Now it sucks my curtains out of the window I must get up and rescue the curtains. At the window-incredible!— The full moon, Large, In a naked sky, Looks down serenely on the anguished trees The stiff creaking branches, the scurrying leaves, That monstrous moon, That great, strong, big full moon Who sways a million tides with a little gesture- That powerful, insolent moon Looks down, and tolerates the wind! Bald sluggard moon!-lets the mad wind rage, Sheds shameless light on all its obscene passions! God, I could hate the moon for this! Is there no limit to indecency? 1 DEATH To ache with unrest, Stale-hearted, bored, Oppressed by life, by the futile motions of people— Their footless eagerness, their strife, And their pale conversations This mood of death. But that other thing called death, Which crumbles us up into good rich soil, And sprouts grass over the place Or weeds What kind adjustment That trues one nicely to the universe, And bestows the good gift: the immortal insignificance Of a leaf, or a grass blade, Or one of the small stars! Viola I. Paradise |