In a little Hungarian cafe Men and women are drinking Yellow wine in tall goblets. Through the milky haze of the smok… The fiddler, under-sized, blond,

Dour river Jaded with monotony of lights Diving off mast heads.... Lights mad with creating in a rive… Heave up, river...

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,)

I have known only my own shallows… Safe, plumbed places, Where I was wont to preen myself. But for the abyss I wanted a plank beneath

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...

Life You have been good to me... You have not made yourself too dea… to juggle with.

Where to-day would a dainty buyer Imbibe your scented juice, Pale ruin with a heart of fire; Drain your succulence with her lip… Grown sapless from much use…

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,

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…

Your love was like moonlight turning harsh things to beauty, so that little wry souls reflecting each other obliquely as in cracked mirrors . . .

What of the silence of the keys And silvery hands? The iron sings… Though bows lie broken on the stri… The fly-wheels turn eternally’€¦ Bring fuel - drive the fires high’…

(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’€¦

Snow wraiths circle us Like washers of the dead, Flapping their white wet cloths Impatiently About the grizzled head,

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

Not your martyrs anointed of heave… The ages are red where they trod - But the Hunted - the world’s bitt… Who smote at your imbecile God - A being to pander and fawn to,