Classic Poem

Black winds from the north
enter black hearts. Barred from
seclusion in lilies they strike
to destroy —

Beastly humanity
where the wind breaks it —


strident voices, heat
quickened, built of waves

Drunk with goats or pavements

Hate is of the night and the day
of flowers and rocks. Nothing
is gained by saying the night breeds
murder — It is the classical mistake

The day

All that enters in another person
all grass, all blackbirds flying
all azalea trees in flower
salt winds —

Sold to them men knock blindly together
splitting their heads open

That is why boxing matches and
Chinese poems are the same — That is why
Hartley praises Miss Wirt

There is nothing in the twist
of the wind but — dashes of cold rain

It is one with submarine vistas
purple and black fish turning
among undulant seaweed —

Black wind, I have poured my heart out
to you until I am sick of it —

Now I run my hand over you feeling
the play of your body — the quiver
of its strength —

The grief of the bowmen of Shu
moves nearer — There is
an approach with difficulty from
the dead — the winter casing of grief

How easy to slip
into the old mode, how hard to
cling firmly to the advance —