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Not your martyrs anointed of heaven -
Where to-day would a dainty buyer
Was there a wind?
When Art goes bounding, lean,
Oh, God did cunningly, there at Babel -
Pythoness body - arching
Wind, just arisen -
I love those spirits
I would be a torch unto your hand,
Let me cradle myself back
Tender and tremulous green of leaves
Out of fiery contacts...
How should they appraise you,
A late snow beats
Crass rays streaming from the vestibules;
What of the silence of the keys
The earth is motionless
The ore in the crucible is pungent, smelling like acrid wine,
Nasal intonations of light
Rock-a-by baby, woolly and brown...
Out of the night you burn, Manhattan,
Indigo bulb of darkness
I love you, malcontent
Old plant of Asia -
Do you remember
Come forth, you workers!
Aren't there bigger things to talk about
Skyscrapers... remote, unpartisan...
Spires of Grace Church,
A spring wind on the Bowery,
I have known only my own shallows -
(Shadows over a cradle...
Blow through me wind
I am of the wind...
I have a dream
I thought to die that night in the solitude where they would never find me...
It is dark... so dark, I remember the sun on Chios...
In a little Hungarian cafe
The old men of the world have made a fire
Out of the lamp-bestarred and clouded dusk -
Snow wraiths circle us
They pass through the great iron gates -
That day, in the slipping of torsos and straining flanks on the bloodied ooze of fields plowed by the iron,
Censored lies that mimic truth...
The woman with jewels sits in the cafe,
Hallo, Metropolitan -
Can you see me, Sasha?
Is it you I see go by the window, Jim Larkin - you not looking at me nor any one,
Will you feast with me, American People?
I see you, refulgent ones,
There is music in the strong
Long vast shapes... cooled and flushed through with darkness....
Wind rising in the alleys