Classic Poem

The August wind is shambling down the street

A blind old man who coughs and spits sputters
Stumbling among the alleys and the gutters

He pokes and prods
With senile patience
The withered leaves
Of our sensations—

And yet devoted to the pure idea
One sits delaying in the vacant square
Forced to endure the blind inconscient stare
Of twenty leering houses that exude
The odour of their turpitude
And a street piano through the dusty trees
Insisting: “Make the best of your position”—
The pure Idea dies of inanition
The street pianos through the trees
Whine and wheeze.

Imaginations
Masturbations
The withered leaves
Of our sensations

The eye retains the images,
The sluggish brain will not react
Nor distils
The dull precipitates of fact
The emphatic mud of physical sense
The cosmic smudge of an enormous thumb
Posting bills
On the soul. And always come
The whine and wheeze
Of street pianos through the trees

Imagination's
Poor Relations
The withered leaves
Of our sensations.

Absolute! complete idealist
A supersubtle peasant
(Conception most unpleasant)
A supersubtle peasant in a shabby square
Assist me to the pure idea—
Regarding nature without love or fear
For a little while, a little while
Standing our ground—
Till life evaporates into a smile
Simple and profound.

Street pianos through the trees
Whine and wheeze

Imagination's
Defecations
The withered leaves
Of our sensations—