Amy Lowell Brushing Up Her Polyphonic Prose, Declaims Fortitude -
Brushing up Her Polyphonic Prose, Declaims Fortitude .
Zip! The thought of you tears in my heart. I fumble and start. I mumble and trip. Zip! The night is a blur. The yellow wax candles whimper and stir. And I, on my way to the heavens, am hurled to the jabbering world. Down, down to the hideous level of Brown; to the Jones, Cohns and various Malones, I sink. The sails of my spirit sag and shrink. The rains of distemper ruffle my feathers and put out my fire. The Zeppelins in my soul drag in the mire; they shiver and rip. Zip!
In my neighbor's garden a blue herring sings. Twee — twee ... On the topmost bough of a cinnamon tree he throws his rapture like a fine spray against the stony night. Over and under the petulant silver thunder of the fountains he cries. I hear silver and mauve ... and the faint sheen of olives. The green echoes rise. They break, these thin-stemmed glasses of sound; ground and shattered by the still skies. The pale herring's song is long with a slender perfume. A whiff of red memories blows through the gloom ... and melts on the tongue. Into the room a young, blond wind ripples and laughs. She stammers and speaks with a breath that is full of blush roses and leeks. And the moon, without warning, comes eerily from the west. He staggers wearily, knowing no rest; lurching out of a cloud and singing aloud. He too laughs; a crazy laughter breaking through his scars. Like a drunken Pierrot spilling the stars from his too-long sleeves. The sun grieves and looks down reprovingly. And the day bursts forth, rejoicing alone. Darkness is overthrown as the great wheels turn. In a thousand factories the tungstens burn. The shaftings worry and moan. The dynamos drone.
Pardon me. There goes the 'phone ...
Zip! The thought of you tears in my heart. I fumble and start. I mumble and trip. Zip! The night is a blur. The yellow wax candles whimper and stir. And I, on my way to the heavens, am hurled to the jabbering world. Down, down to the hideous level of Brown; to the Jones, Cohns and various Malones, I sink. The sails of my spirit sag and shrink. The rains of distemper ruffle my feathers and put out my fire. The Zeppelins in my soul drag in the mire; they shiver and rip. Zip!
In my neighbor's garden a blue herring sings. Twee — twee ... On the topmost bough of a cinnamon tree he throws his rapture like a fine spray against the stony night. Over and under the petulant silver thunder of the fountains he cries. I hear silver and mauve ... and the faint sheen of olives. The green echoes rise. They break, these thin-stemmed glasses of sound; ground and shattered by the still skies. The pale herring's song is long with a slender perfume. A whiff of red memories blows through the gloom ... and melts on the tongue. Into the room a young, blond wind ripples and laughs. She stammers and speaks with a breath that is full of blush roses and leeks. And the moon, without warning, comes eerily from the west. He staggers wearily, knowing no rest; lurching out of a cloud and singing aloud. He too laughs; a crazy laughter breaking through his scars. Like a drunken Pierrot spilling the stars from his too-long sleeves. The sun grieves and looks down reprovingly. And the day bursts forth, rejoicing alone. Darkness is overthrown as the great wheels turn. In a thousand factories the tungstens burn. The shaftings worry and moan. The dynamos drone.
Pardon me. There goes the 'phone ...
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