The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,

The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail

The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices

WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one

THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—

Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway

Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am

O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…

Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,

The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!

I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,

Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely

Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves