How are we to write The Russian novel in America As long as life goes so unterribly?
Haven't you heard, though, About the ships where war has found them out At sea, about the towns where war has come Through opening clouds at night with droning speed Further o'erhead than all but stars and angels And children in the ships and in the towns?
Everything written is as good as it is dramatic. It need not declare itself in form, but it is drama or nothing.
For I have had too much Of apple-picking:I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired.
One luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.
A name with meaning could bring up a child, Taking the child out of the parents' hands. Better a meaningless name, I should say, As leaving more to nature and happy chance. Name children some names and see what you do.
Leaves and bark, leaves and bark, To lean against and hear in the dark. Petals I may have once pursued. Leaves are all my darker mood.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate wilfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I would not come in. I meant not even if asked, And I hadn't been.
But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, And I must be, as he had been - alone, As all must be, I said within my heart, Whether they work together or apart.
Possessing what we still were unpossessed by, Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
When a friend calls to me from the road And slows his horse to a meaning walk, I don't stand still and look around On all the hills I haven't hoed, And shout from where I am, What is it? No, not as there is a time to talk. I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground, Blade-end up and five feet tall, And plod: I go up to the stone wall For a friendly visit.
Before now poetry has taken notice Of wars, and what are wars but politics Transformed from chronic to acute and bloody?
So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be.
He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors.
Why make so much of fragmentary blue In here and there a bird, or butterfly, Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye, When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?
Let those possess the land, and only those, Who love it with a love so strong and stupid That they may be abused and taken advantage of And made fun of by business, law, and art.
For I thought Epicurus and Lucretius By Nature meant the Whole Goddam Machinery.
Trust him to have his bitter politics Against his unacquaintances the rich Who sleep in houses of their own, though mortgaged. Conservatives, they don't know what to save.
People who read me seem to be divided into four groups: twenty-five percent like me for the right reasons; twenty-five percent like me for the wrong reasons; twenty-five percent hate me for the wrong reasons; twenty-five percent hate me for the right reasons. It's that last twenty-five percent that worries me.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart
Now close the windows and hush all the fields: If the trees must, let them silently toss.
That day she put our heads together, Fate had her imagination about her, Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather.
Modern poets talk against business, poor things, but all of us write for money. Beginners are subjected to trial by market.
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