what a breath—Has an angel local motion or “The goose-soft snow.”
Feathery snow—The feather-quilted snow.
Freckled eyes.
Wild Ceres through the wheat.
The slow dance of dancers.
The gull swerves seaward like hope—September full of departing leaves and wings.
He sat alone four thousand miles from home—the lonely death of seas at dawn.
The decent and untainted eyes that look on spattered death—Myself dreaming of old battles—For a child the spear goes clearly through—The musical horns beg and the battles press—The phantasy of bloody death: The cloven brain-pan—the one lost second near enough to touch its brother life, but infinitely far.
The wind-blown lights of the town.
A branch of stars.
A hen and a pig.
Quills—frills.
Mired—feathers.
The vast low stammer of the night.
By the rim—the geese go waddling to the Fair.
The minute-whirring flies buzz home to death.
“Old England will muddle through, my lads”—
She has muddled and she’s through: but she’s not through muddling.
Gull-cry and gull are gone.
Shadow and hawk are gone.
Shadow and hawk are gone.
Shadow and hawk are—
Friday Night—December 12, 1924: The Fratellini Brothers: How in his rich robe I saw him—the younger brother—waiting for the act—the waiting is all over—The burlesque musical act—They were great, sad, epic—what clowns should be.
Salle Rubens with all the meat—All the people clustered about—dull.
Mona Ugly Lisa.
The Virgin with Saint Anne—a great picture.
Guido Reni—the sainted and sugared faces.
