Al Que Quiere!. William Carlos Williams
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I remain! Therefore, listen!
For you will not soon have another
singer.
First I say this: you have seen
the strange birds, have you not, that
sometimes
rest upon our river in winter?
Let them cause you to think well then
of the storms
that drive many to shelter. These things
do not happen without reason.
And the next thing I say is this:
I saw an eagle once circling against the
clouds
over one of our principal churches—
Easter, it was—a beautiful day!—:
three gulls came from above the river
and crossed slowly seaward!
Oh, I know you have your own hymns, I
have heard them—
and because I knew they invoked some
great protector
I could not be angry with you, no matter
how much they outraged true music—
You see, it is not necessary for us to leap
at each other,
and, as I told you, in the end
the gulls moved seaward very quietly.
APPEAL
You who are so mighty,
crimson salamander,
hear me once more.
I lay among the half burned sticks
at the edge of the fire.
The fiend was creeping in.
I felt the cold tips of fingers—
O crimson salamander!
Give me one little flame,
one!
that I may bind it
protectingly about the wrist
of him that flung me here,
here upon the very center!
This is my song.
IN HARBOR
Surely there, among the great docks, is
peace, my mind;
there with the ships moored in the river.
Go out, timid child,
and snuggle in among the great ships
talking so quietly.
Maybe you will even fall asleep near
them and be
lifted into one of their laps, and in the
morning—
There is always the morning in which to
remember it all!
Of what are they gossiping? God knows.
And God knows it matters little for we
cannot understand them.
Yet it is certainly of the sea, of that
there can be no question.
It is a quiet sound. Rest! That's all
I care for now.
The smell of them will put us to sleep
presently.
Smell! It is the sea water mingling here
into the river—
at least so it seems—perhaps it is some-
thing else—but what matter?
The sea water! It is quiet and smooth
here!
How slowly they move, little by little
trying
the hawsers that drop and groan with
their agony.
Yes, it is certainly of the high sea they
are talking.
WINTER SUNSET
Then I raised my head
and stared out over
the blue February waste
to the blue bank of hill
with stars on it
in strings and festoons—
but above that:
one opaque
stone of a cloud
just on the hill
left and right
as far as I could see;
and above that
a red streak, then
icy blue sky!
It was a fearful thing
to come into a man's heart
at that time: that stone
over the little blinking stars
they'd set there.
APOLOGY
Why do I write today?
The beauty of
the terrible faces
of our nonentities
stirs me to it:
colored women
day workers—
old and experienced—
returning home at dusk
in cast off clothing
faces like
old Florentine oak.
Also
the set pieces
of your faces stir me—
leading citizens—
but not
in the same way.
PASTORAL
The little sparrows
hop ingenuously
about the pavement
quarreling