COLLECTED POEMS
Last night there were a dozen on that shelf,
And two of them were living in my hat.
Look! Now he goes, but he'll come back
Ha? But he will, I say . . .
Il reviendra-z-à Pâques,
Ou a la, Trinité . . .
Be very sure that he'll return again;
For said the Lord : Imprimis, we have rats,
And having rats, we have rain.
So on the seventh day
He rested, and made Pain.
Man, if you love the Lord, afid if the Lord
Love liars, I will have you at your word
And swallow it. Voilà. Bah!
Where do I say it is
That I have lain so long?
Where do I count myself among the dead,
As once above the living and the strong?
And what is this that comes and goes,
Fades and swells and overflows,
Like music underneath and overhead?
What is it in me now that rings and roars
Like fever-laden wine?
What ruinous tavern-shine
Is this that lights me far from worlds and wars
And women that were mine?
Where do I say it is
That Time has made my bed ?
What lowering outland hostelry is this
For one the stars have disinherited?
An island, I have said:
A peak, where fiery dreams and far desires
Are rained on, like old fires:
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