Chapter I: Front Matter

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'SOUR GRAPES'

_A Book of Poems_

BOSTON
THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY
1921

_Copyright, 1921, by_
THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY

The Four Seas Press
Boston, Mass., U. S. A.

To ALFRED KREYMBORG

Certain of the poems in this book have appeared in the magazines: _Poetry_, _a Magazine of Verse_, _The Egoist_, _The Little Review_, _The Dial_, _Others_, and _Contact_.

CONTENTS

Page

THE LATE SINGER 11

MARCH 12

BERKET AND THE STARS 17

A CELEBRATION 18

APRIL 21

A GOODNIGHT 22

OVERTURE TO A DANCE OF LOCOMOTIVES 24

ROMANCE MODERNE 26

THE DESOLATE FIELD 30

WILLOW POEM 31

APPROACH OF WINTER 32

JANUARY 33

BLIZZARD 34

TO WAKEN AN OLD LADY 35

WINTER TREES 36

COMPLAINT 37

THE COLD NIGHT 38

SPRING STORM 39

THE DELICACIES 40

THURSDAY 43

THE DARK DAY 44

TIME, THE HANGMAN 45

TO A FRIEND 46

THE GENTLE MAN 47

THE SOUGHING WIND 48

SPRING 49

PLAY 50

LINES 51

THE POOR 52

COMPLETE DESTRUCTION 53

MEMORY OF APRIL 54

EPITAPH 55

DAISY 56

PRIMROSE 57

QUEEN-ANN'S-LACE 58

GREAT MULLEN 59

WAITING 60

THE HUNTER 61

ARRIVAL 62

TO A FRIEND CONCERNING SEVERAL LADIES 63

YOUTH AND BEAUTY 65

THE THINKER 66

THE DISPUTANTS 67

THE TULIP BED 68

THE BIRDS 69

THE NIGHTINGALES 70

SPOUTS 71

BLUEFLAGS 72

THE WIDOW'S LAMENT IN SPRINGTIME 73

LIGHT HEARTED WILLIAM 74

PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR 75

THE LONELY STREET 77

THE GREAT FIGURE 78

SOUR GRAPES

THE LATE SINGER

Here it is spring again
and I still a young man!
I am late at my singing.
The sparrow with the black rain on his breast
has been at his cadenzas for two weeks past:
What is it that is dragging at my heart?
The grass by the back door
is stiff with sap.
The old maples are opening
their branches of brown and yellow moth-flowers.
A moon hangs in the blue
in the early afternoons over the marshes.
I am late at my singing.

MARCH

I

Winter is long in this climate
and spring--a matter of a few days
only,--a flower or two picked
from mud or from among wet leaves
or at best against treacherous
bitterness of wind, and sky shining
teasingly, then closing in black
and sudden, with fierce jaws.

II

March,
you remind me of
the pyramids, our pyramids--
stript of the polished stone
that used to guard them!
March,
you are like Fra Angelico
at Fiesole, painting on plaster!

March,
you are like a band of
young poets that have not learned
the blessedness of warmth
(or have forgotten it).

At any rate--
I am moved to write poetry
for the warmth there is in it
and for the loneliness--
a poem that shall have you
in it March.