Second April

Front Cover
M. Kennerley, 1921 - American poetry - 110 pages
0 Reviews

What people are saying - Write a review

We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.

Other editions - View all

Common terms and phrases

Popular passages

Page 23 - PASSER MORTUUS EST Death devours all lovely things; Lesbia with her sparrow Shares the darkness, — presently Every bed is narrow. Unremembered as old rain Dries the sheer libation, And the little petulant hand Is an annotation. After all, my erstwhile dear, My no longer cherished, Need we say it was not love, Now that love has perished? WHAT LIPS MY LIPS HAVE KISSED...
Page 26 - THE railroad track is miles away, And the day is loud with voices speaking, Yet there isn'ta train goes by all day But I hear its whistle shrieking. All night there isn'ta train goes by, Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming But I see its cinders red on the sky, And hear its engine steaming. My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I'll not be knowing, Yet there isn'ta train I wouldn't take, No matter where it's going.
Page 70 - PRAYER TO PERSEPHONE Be to her, Persephone, All the things I might not be; Take her head upon your knee. She that was so proud and wild, Flippant, arrogant and free, She that had no need of me, Is a little lonely child Lost in Hell, — Persephone, Take her head upon your knee; Say to her, "My dear, my dear, It is not so dreadful here.
Page 32 - Stranger, pause and look; From the dust of ages Lift this little book, Turn the tattered pages, Read me, do not let me die!
Page 51 - LISTEN, children: Your father is dead. From his old coats I'll make you little jackets; I'll make you little trousers From his old pants. There'll be in his pockets Things he used to put there, Keys and pennies Covered with tobacco; Dan shall have the pennies To save in his bank; Anne shall have the keys To make a pretty noise with. Life must go on, And the dead be forgotten; Life must go on, Though good men die; Anne, eat your breakfast; Dan, take your medicine; Life must go on; I forget just why.
Page 19 - Here my knee, there my foot, Up and up, from shoot to shoot — And the blessed bean-stalk thinning Like the mischief all the time, Till it took me rocking, spinning, In a dizzy, sunny circle, Making angles with the root, Far and out above the cackle Of the city I was...
Page 30 - Down, you mongrel, Death! Back into your kennel! I have stolen breath In a stalk of fennel! You shall scratch and you shall whine Many a night, and you shall worry Many a bone, before you bury One sweet bone of mine! When shall I be dead? When my flesh is withered, And above my head Yellow pollen gathered All the empty afternoon ? When sweet lovers pause and wonder Who am I that lie thereunder, Hidden from the moon ? This my personal death ? — That my lungs be failing To inhale the breath...
Page 34 - Men that long for sleep ; Men that wake and revel ; — If an old song leap To your senses' level At such moments, may it be Sometimes, though a moment only, Some forgotten, quaint and homely Vehicle of me ! Women at your toil, Women at your leisure Till the kettle boil, Snatch of me your pleasure, Where the broom-straw marks the leaf; Women quiet with your weeping Lest you wake a workman sleeping, Mix me with your grief! Boys and girls that steal From the shocking laughter Of the old, to kneel By...
Page 35 - By a dripping rafter Under the discolored eaves, Out of trunks with hingeless covers Lifting tales of saint and lovers, Travelers, goblins, thieves, Suns that shine by night, Mountains made from valleys, — Bear me to the light, ^ Flat upon your bellies By the webby window lie, Where the little flies are crawling, — Read me, margin me with scrawling, Do not let me die!
Page 1 - To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs, It is not enough that yearly, down this...

Bibliographic information