is a blossom under his touch

to which the fibers of her being

stem one by one, each to its end,
until the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem,
a cluster, flower by flower,

a pious wish to whiteness gone over-
or nothing.

DAISY

The dayseye hugging the earth
in August, ha! Spring is
gone down in purple,

weeds stand high in the corn,
the rainbeaten furrow

is clotted with sorrel
and crabgrass, the
branch is black under

the heavy mass of the leaves-
The sun is upon a
slender green stem
ribbed lengthwise.
He lies on his back-
it is a woman also—
he regards his former.
majesty and

round the yellow center,

split and creviced and done into
minute flowerheads, he sends out
his twenty rays—a little
and the wind is among them
to grow cool there!

One turns the thing over

in his hand and looks

at it from the rear: brownedged,

green and pointed scales

armor his yellow.

But turn and turn,

the crisp petals remain.

brief, translucent, greenfastened,

I will teach you my townspeople

how to perform a funeral

for you have it over a troop

of artists

unless one should scour the world

you have the ground sense necessary.

See! the hearse leads.

I begin with a design for a hearse.
For Christ's sake not black-

nor white either-and not polished!

Let it be weathered-like a farm wagon-
with gilt wheels (this could be
applied fresh at small expense)
or no wheels at all:

a rough dray to drag over the ground.

Knock the glass out!

My God-glass, my townspeople!
For what purpose? Is it for the dead
to look out or for us to see

how well he is housed or to see

the flowers or the lack of them-
or what?

To keep the rain and snow from him?
He will have a heavier rain soon:

pebbles and dirt and what not.
Let there be no glass-

and no upholstery! phew!

and no little brass rollers

and small easy wheels on the bottom

my townspeople what are you thinking of!

A rough plain hearse then

with gilt wheels and no top at all.

On this the coffin lies

by its own weight.

No wreaths please

especially no hot-house flowers.

Some common memento is better, something he prized and is known by: his old clothes-a few books perhapsGod knows what! You realize

how we are about these things,

my townspeople

something will be found-anything

even flowers if he had come to that. So much for the hearse.

For heaven's sake though see to the driver!

Take off the silk hat! In fact

that's no place at all for him

up there unceremoniously

dragging our friend out to his own dignity!

Bring him down-bring him down!

Low and inconspicuous! I'd not have him ride on the wagon at all-damn him—

Oh strong ridged and deeply hollowed

nose of mine! what will you not be smelling? What tactless asses we are, you and I, boney nose,

always indiscriminate, always unashamed,

and now it is the souring flowers of the bedraggled poplars: a festering pulp on the wet earth

beneath them. With what deep thirst

we quicken our desires

to that rank odor of a passing springtime!

Can you not be decent? Can you not reserve your ardors

for something less unlovely? What girl will care

for us, do you think, if we continue in these ways?

Must you taste everything? Must you know everything? Must you have a part in everything?

A GOODNIGHT

Go to sleep-though of course you will not-
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray
dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,
scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady
car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls' cries in a wind-gust
broken by the wind; calculating wings set above
the field of waves breaking.

Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,
refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food!

Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild

chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voicessleep, sleep.

Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby.

Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders,

hitch this way, then that, mass and surge at the crossingslullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles,

the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks:

it is all to put you to sleep,

to soften your limbs in relaxed postures,

and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen and fall over your eyes and over your mouth,

brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream,

sleep and dream

A black fungus springs out about lonely church doorssleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon

the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his message, to have in at your window. Pay no

heed to him. He storms at your sill with

cooings, with gesticulations, curses!

You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping. He would have you sit under your desk lamp

brooding, pondering; he would have you

slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger

and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen

go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby;

his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is

a crackbrained messenger.

At table the cold, greenish, split grapefruit, its juice
on the
tongue, the clink of the spoon in

your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over.

The open street-door lets in the breath of

the morning wind from over the lake.

The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakeslullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper,

the movement of the troubled coat beside you—

sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep

It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of

the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed

with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep.

And the night passes-and never passes—