#English #Women
Mid this hot green glowing gloom A word falls with a raindrop’s boo… Like baskets of ripe fruit in air The bird-songs seem, suspended whe… Those goldfinches—the ripe warm li…
CAME the great Popinjay Smelling his nosegay: In cages like grots The birds sang gavottes. ‘Herodiade’s flea
BENEATH the flat and paper sky The sun, a demon’s eye, Glowed through the air, that mask… All wand’ring sounds that pass Seemed out of tune, as if the ligh…
The floors are slippery with blood… The world gyrates too. God is goo… That while His wind blows out the… For those who hourly die for us— We still can dance each night.
SAID the Lion to the Lioness-'W… No more a raging fire like the hea… (No liking but all lust)– Remember still the flowering of th… The rippling of bright muscles lik…
Do not take a bath in Jordan, Gor… On the holy Sabbath, on the peace… Said the huntsman, playing on his… Boring to death the pheasant and t… Boring the ptarmigan and grouse fo…
Bells of gray crystal Break on each bough— The swans’ breath will mist all The cold airs now. Like tall pagodas
Within your magic web of hair, lie… The fire and splendour of the anci… The dire gold of the comet’s wind-… The songs that turned to gold the… When all the stars of heaven sang…
Across the fields as green as spin… Cropped as close as Time to Green… Stands a high house; if at all, Spring comes like a Paisley shawl… Patternings meticulous
The carriage brushes through the b… Leaves (violent jets from life to… Strong polished speed is plunging,… Between the showers of bright hot… The window-glasses glaze our faces
Still falls the Rain— Dark as the world of man, black as… Blind as the nineteen hundred and… Upon the Cross. Still falls the Rain
Metallic waves of people jar Through crackling green toward the… Where on the tables chattering-whi… The sharp drinks quarrel with the… Those coloured muslin blinds the s…
JANE, Jane, Tall as a crane, The morning light creaks down agai… Comb your cockscomb-ragged hair, Jane, Jane, come down the stair.
LOVELY Semiramis Closes her slanting eyes: Dead is she long ago. From her fan, sliding slow, Parrot-bright fire’s feathers,
ACROSS the flat and the pastel… Two people go . . . . ‘And do you… When last we wandered this shore?’… For it is cold-hearted December.’ ‘Dead, the leaves that like asses’…
