English

In what rich harmony, what polished lays,
Should man address thy throne, when Nature pays
Her wild, her tuneful tribute to the sky!
Yes, Lord, she sings thee, but she knows not why.
The fountain's gush, the long resounding shore,
The zephyr's whisper, and the tempest's roar,
The rustling leaf, in autumn's fading woods,
The wintry storm, the rush of vernal floods,
The summer bower, by cooling breezes fann'd,
The torrent's fall, by dancing rainbows spann'd,
The streamlet, gurgling through its rocky glen,

On Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows,
And his cool arms round Vallombrosa throws.
Rolling his crystal tide through classic vales,
Alone, — at night, — the Italian boatman sails.
High o'er Mont Alto, walks, in maiden pride,
Night's queen: — he sees her image on that tide,
Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest,
Around his prow, then rippling sinks to rest;
Now, glittering dance around his eddying oar,
Whose every sweep is echoed from the shore;
Now, far before him, on a liquid bed

Now, he recalls the lamentable wail,
That pierc'd the shades of Rama's palmy vale
When Murder struck, thron'd on an infant's bier,
A note, for Satan's, and for Herod's ear.
Now, on a bank, o'erhung with waving wood,
Whose falling leaves flit o'er Ohio's flood,
The pilgrim stands; and o'er his memory rushes
The mingled tide of tears, and blood, that gushes
Along the valleys, where his childhood stray'd,
And round the temples, where his fathers pray'd.
How fondly then, from all but Hope exil'd,

Here let us pause: — the opening prospect view: —
How fresh this mountain air! — how soft the blue,
That throws its mantle o'er the length'ning scene!
Those waving groves — those vales of living green —
Those yellow fields — that lake's cerulean face,
That meets, with curling smiles, the cool embrace
Of roaring torrents, lull'd by her to rest; —
That white cloud, melting on the mountain's breast;
How the wide landscape laughs upon the sky!
How rich the light, that gives it to the eye!

Angel of beach houses and picnics, do you know solitaire?
Fifty-two reds and blacks and only myself to blame.

Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen
with cheese and bread and rose on the rocks of Rockport.

She of the rolls that floated in the air, she of the inlaid
woodwork all greasy with lemon, she of the feather and dust,

Oh Angel of the blizzard and blackout, Madam white face,
take me back to that red mouth, that July 21st place.

Angel of hope and calendars, do you know despair?
That hole I crawl into with a box of Kleenex,

In this hole your baby is strangling. Your mouth is clay.
Your eyes are made of glass. They break. You are not brave.

You are as still as a yardstick. You have a doll's kiss.
The brain whirls in a fit. The brain is not evident.
I have gone to that same place without a germ or a stroke.
A little solo act--that lady with the brain that broke.

. . . What unusual luck! My body
passively resisting. Part of the leftovers. Part of the kill.

Angel of clean sheets, do you know bedbugs?
Once in a madhouse they came like specks of cinnamon
as I lay in a chloral cave of drugs,
as old as a dog, as quiet as a skeleton.

I have known a crib. I have know the tuck-in of a child
but inside my hair waits the night I was defiled.

I said, "The devil is down that festering hole."
Then he bit me in the buttocks and took over my soul.

Mother of fire, let me stand at your devouring gate
as the sun dies in your arms and you loosen its terrible weight.