It is raining now, in quiet little drops, and Marwood, the hangman of England, is dead. Is it nothing new for you to have raindrops on your fingers in the solitary dark crying of the night? Marwood, the hangman of England, is dead. There is no reach to this moon-touched universe beyond the hero’s star; eagles drift through crimson foreign ports; and Marwood, the hangman of England, is dead. Marwood’s black box is sunk in a grave, his skeleton of ebony and ash is ancient earth. Marwood, hear the gulls cry out Marwood, the hangman of England is dead.
When she saw and in her I because that she because I because, when she, she that is, she, when she, for I knew, I felt, she knew of my rich heart before it purled in waterfalls melodiously. The temerity there, to try a night heartfall, there together, a deeper heart and deeper heartfall, singing heard through the golden strings. Dresden, Germany never knew a more beautiful ceramic cup to be made and decorated that is more beautiful to me than her lordly shining. She dashed with silver the dark orchards of the evening. Lemony, frilly love. My new darling.
Joanne Monforte works at Perkins, and she is cute and pretty and sweet. How carefully we watch her! Joanne is dark and cute and has dark eyes; she laughs and giggles and tickles the busboys. Joanne is concentrating on writing a meal ticket. A piece of her hair has fallen on her cheek; a piece of her hair has fallen around her neck. She has very sad eyes; she is very lost; she is very alone. She sways with friendship and blows her bangs off her brow. She nods. Her dark eyelashes have conquered the night. Thoughtful, quick, lovely Joanne!
I adore Renee because she is true to my idea of the human heart. There is something pink in her smile that reminds me of orchids, of my dream of my mother in a garden. She is incredible! A red mountain! She has an equestrian sensitivity to me, and I am surprised by the gentleness of her eyelashes. There is no form of beauty that she reaches for that she does not reach. Her hair is sort of chestnut and wild, and it appeals to me. I want to know more about the care she takes searching for pure roses.
O for a tongue of ballots to express my vote of you,
Sibyl, child of the reedy dawn,
Temperate angel of the oratory of light,
Cor anglais in a voting booth,
Kissing babies with your poems,
Collocation of all good votes,
Poll taken by the stars
Who stand elect,
Hearing your politic song.
The worlds heard your debate of fortune,
Knew your two points about the issue of creation:
That the young bud opening is not a pinched blossom,
That all democracies of the soul have come.
And that is your truth, little cor anglais,
Wind’s pitchpipe to capitols and cathedrals,