That was a great night we spied up… See-sawing home, Singing a hot sweet song to the su… Shuffling off behind the smoke-haz… Fog-horns sentimentalizing on the…

The old men of the world have made… To warm their trembling hands. They poke the young men in. The young men burn like withes. If one run a little way,

Was there a wind? Tap... tap... Night pads upon the snow with moccasined feet... and it is still... so still... an eagle's feather might fall like a stone. Could there have been a storm...

The foreman's head slowly circling... White rims under yellow disks of eyes.... Gold hairs

Light! Innumerable ions of light, Kindling, irradiating, All to their foci tending… Light that jingles like anklet cha…

—Albert Parsons went to his death singing Annie Laurie; didn’t another have a rose in his coat–

Nasal intonations of light and clicking tongues... publicity of windows stoning me with pent-up cries... smells of abattoirs...

The earth is motionless And poised in space ... A great bird resting in its flight Between the alleys of the stars. It is the wind’s hour off ...

Tender and tremulous green of leav… Turned up by the wind, Twanging among the vines - Wind in the grass Blowing a clear path

(Easter 1916) Censored lies that mimic truth’€¦ Censored truth as pale as fear’€¦ My heart is like a rousing bell - And but the dead to hear’€¦

Is it you I see go by the window,… at me nor any one, And your shadow swaying from East… Strange that you should be walking… And your legs tied up with a knot…

Out of the lamp—bestarred and clou… Snaring, illuding, concealing, Magically conjuring - Turning to fairy-coaches Beetle-backed limousines

Small towns Crawling out of their green shirts… Tubercular towns Coughing a little in the dawn... And the church...

Because you are four years old the candle is all dressed up in a… And stars nod to you through the h… (except the big stiff planets too fat to move about much,)

Aren’t there bigger things to talk… Than a window in Greenwich Villag… And hyacinths sprouting Like little puce poems out of a si… Some cosmic hearsay—