A few more.
A few more:
The Garden
By Ezra Pound
Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall
She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,
And she is dying piece-meal
of a sort of emotional anamia.
And round about there is a rabble
of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.
They shall inherit the earth.
In her is the end of breeding.
Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.
She would like some on to speak to her,
And is almost afraid that I
will commit that indiscretion.
The Artist's Model
By Joe Bolton
The light the morning of Soyer's death was clear.
It sifted through the three tall dirty windows
Of his studio. But he wasn't there-
Wasn't there among the deep blue shadows
Representing desire on the canvas,
Nor in the wood-framed mirror in which he
Painted himself, in shadow, painting me.
Outside, the city oddly without menace,
Traffic gliding down Seventy-fourth Street.
I remembered taking my cloths off those chill
Mornings when I'd come dressed like a Russian doll.
And still on the easel, all of me but my feet:
All Body, all flesh, all paint, all surface,
the withe shirt draped over my right shoulder,
A face both mine and not mine-distant, older,
As if he had painted his soul in my face.
The Snowfall
By Donald Justice
The classic landscapes of dreams are not
More pathless, though footprints leading nowhere
would seem to prove that a people once
Survived for a little even here.
Fragments of a pathetic culture
Remain, the lost mittens of children,
And a singe, bright detassled snow cap,
Evidence of some frantic migration.
The landmarks are all gone. Nevertheless
There is something familiar about this country.
Slowly now we begin to recall
The terrible whispers of our elders
Falling softly about our ears
In childhood, never believed till now.
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