Tel qu'en lui-même, en fin, l'éternité le change, silent, upon a peak in Darien, I found a dimpled spider, fat and white: little Joe Gould has lost his teeth, and doesn't know where to find them, and found a second-hand set that clacked. School is over, it is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the streets, to while the time away. They have grown tall. In summer the song sings itself above the muffled words. O wild west wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, sucede que me canso de ser hombre. When you are old and grey and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book, and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep. Ronsard te chantait. Fair seed-time had my soul, Milton though shouldst be living at this hour. Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit of that forbidden tree. O rose, thou art sick, the invisible worm that flies in the night in the howling storm has found out thy bed of crimson joy, and his dark secret love doth thy life destroy. I was angry with my friend. When my bangs were cut straight across my forehead. Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes, yo no sé. Mizu no oto. Arma virumque cano. Hypocrite lecteur, mon semblable, mon frere, mon enfant, ma soeur. Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs always wrong to the light, so never seeing deeper down in the well than where the water gives me back in a shining surface picture, me myself in a summer heaven, god-like, looking out of a wreath of ferns and cloud puffs. A suit of shoes. Blue windows, blue rooftops, and the blue light of the rain. These contiguous phrases of Rachmoninoff pouring into my enormous ears, and the tears falling into my blindness. The only way to be quiet is to be quick, so I scare you clumsily or surprise you with a stab. A praying mantis knows time more intimately than I and is more casual. Crickets use time for the accompaniment of innocent fidgeting. A zebra races counterclockwise. All this I desire. My quietness has a man in it. So many echoes in my head. You were wearing... I love you as a sherrif searches for a walnut. These are amazing, each joining a neighbor, as though speech were a still performance. They feed they lion. Arranging by chance to meet as far from the morning as agreeing with it, you and I suddenly are what the trees try to tell us we are. That their merely being there means something, that soon we may love, touch, explain. As I walked out one evening. The cold had made a poet. Oh for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention. A kingdom for a stage, princes to act, and monarchs to behold the swelling scene. Then should the war-llke Harry, like himself, assume the port of Mars, and at this feet, hemmed in like hounds, should famine, sword and fire crouch for employment. I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast. Forgive me. They were delicious, so sweet and so cold. They taste good to her. Do not go gentle into that good night. I knew a woman, lovely in her bones. The whisky on your breath would make a young boy dizzy. My dog lay three days dead without a grave. Siempre la claridad viene del cielo. Es un don. No se halla entre las cosas sino muy por encima, y las ocupa, haciendo de ello vida y labor propias. Las ascuas de un crepúsculo morado. When Dick like a discus hurler throws his wood against the sky. When I have fears. When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, and beauty making beautiful old rhymes in praise of ladies dead and lovely knights. Then of thy beauty do I question make, that thou among the wastes of time must go, since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, and die as fast as they see others grow. A salesman is an it that stinks excuse me. The Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls. Jesus told him, he didn't believe it. Lao Tse told him, he didn't believe it. I like my body when it is with your body. In just spring. So much depends upon a red wheel barrow, the apparition of these faces in the crowd. Come, let us feast our eyes. Noone listens to poetry. Guillaume Apollinaire is dead. In that November off Tehuantepec, the slopping of the sea grew dark one night and made me think of rancid umbrellas and flatulent chocolate. Complacencies of the peignoir, and late coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, and the blue freedom of a cockatoo upon the rug mingle to dissipate the holy hush of ancient sacrifice. She dreams a little and she feels the pears are not viols, nudes. They resemble nothing else. He mistook the shadow of his equipage for blackbirds. If you can't eat you got to smoke and we ain't got nothing to smoke. Come on kid, let's go to sleep. I sing of Olaf. Odi et amo. Caeli, Lesbia nostra, Lesbia illa, illa Lesbia quam Catullus plus quam se et suos amavit omnes, nunc in quadraviis et angiportis glubit magnamani Remi nepotes. She walk in beauty, like a lake: season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. There where she sits she sees Venus rise. On. Men come out of fields and put coats on and become businessmen and die stale. The same loathsome, stale death they might of died in countryside hills of dung.

There, I just had to get some poetry out of my system this morning...