Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art—
   Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
   Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
   Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
   Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
   Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
   Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

Great forests, you alarm me like a mighty fane; 
Like organ-tones you roar, and in our hearts of stone, 
Where ancient sobs vibrate, O halls of endless pain! 
The answering echoes of your “De Profundis” moan.

I hate thee, Ocean! hate thy tumults and thy throbs, 
My spirit finds them in himself. This bitter glee 
Of vanquished mortals, full of insults and of sobs, 
I hear it in the mighteous laughter of the sea.

O starless night! thy loveliness my soul inhales, 
Without those starry rays which speak a language known, 
For I desire the dark, the naked and the lone.

But e’en those darknesses themselves to me are veils, 
Where live—and, by the millions ’neath my eyelids prance, 
Long, long departed Beings with familiar glance.

Before man came to blow it right
    The wind once blew itself untaught,
And did its loudest day and night
    In any rough place where it caught.

Man came to tell it what was wrong:
    It hadn’t found the place to blow;
It blew too hard—the aim was song.
    And listen—how it ought to go!

He took a little in his mouth,
    And held it long enough for north
To be converted into south,
    And then by measure blew it forth.

By measure. It was word and note,
    The wind the wind had meant to be—
A little through the lips and throat.
    The aim was song—the wind could see.

A song of Enchantment I sang me there,
In a green—green wood, by waters fair, 
Just as the words came up to me 
I sang it under the wild wood tree.

Widdershins turned I, singing it low, 
Watching the wild birds come and go; 
No cloud in the deep dark blue to be seen 
Under the thick-thatched branches green.

Twilight came: silence came: 
The planet of Evening’s silver flame; 
By darkening paths I wandered through 
Thickets trembling with drops of dew.

But the music is lost and the words are gone 
Of the song I sang as I sat alone, 
Ages and ages have fallen on me— 
On the wood and the pool and the elder tree.

^{translated from the ancient Greek by Bliss Carman}

I seek and desire, 
Even as the wind 
That travels the plain 
And stirs in the bloom 
Of the apple-tree. 

I wander through life, 
With the searching mind 
That is never at rest, 
Till I reach the shade 
Of my lover’s door.

The evening darkens over
After a day so bright
The windcapt waves discover
That wild will be the night.
There’s sound of distant thunder.

The latest sea-birds hover
Along the cliff’s sheer height;
As in the memory wander
Last flutterings of delight,
White wings lost on the white.

There’s not a ship in sight;
And as the sun goes under
Thick clouds conspire to cover
The moon that should rise yonder.
Thou art alone, fond lover.

No spinsterlollypop for me—yes—we have 
No bananas I got lusting palate—I  Always eat them— — — — — — —     
They have dandy celluloid tubes—all sizes—
Tinted diabolically as a baboon’s hind-complexion. 
A man’s a— 
Piffle! 
Will-o’-th’-wisp! What’s the dread 
Matter with the up-to-date-American- 
Home-comforts? Bum insufficient for the 
Should-be wellgroomed upsy! 
That’s the leading question. 
There’s the vibrator— — — 
Coy flappertoy! I am adult citizen with 
Vote—I demand my unstinted share 
In roofeden—witchsabbath of our baby- 
Lonian obelisk.  
What’s radio for—if you please? 
“Eve’s dart pricks snookums upon 
Wirefence. ” 
An apple a day— — —   
It’ll come— — — — 
Ha! When? I’m no tongueswallowing yogi. 
Progress is ravishlng—
It doesn’t me—
Nudge it—
Kick it—
Prod it—
Push it—
Broadcast— — — —
That’s the lightning idea! 
S.O.S. national shortage of—  
What ? 
How are we going to put it befitting 
Lifted upsys? 
Psh! Any sissy poet has sufficient freezing 
Chemicals in his Freudian icechest to snuff all 
Cockiness. We’ll hire one. 
Hell! Not that! That’s the trouble— —  
Cock crow silly! 
Oh fine! 
They’re in France—the air on the line—
The Poles— — — — — —
Have them send waves—like candy—
Valentines— — — —
“Say it with— — — 
Bolts ! 
Oh thunder! 
Serpentine aircurrents— — —
Hhhhhphssssssss! The very word penetrates 
I feel whoozy! 
I like that. I don’t hanker after Billyboys—but I am entitled 
To be deeply shocked. 
So are we—but you fill the hiatus. 
Dear—I ain’t queer—I need it straight— —
A dozen cocktails—please— — — —

I do not care for sleep, I’ll wait awhile 
For Love to come out of the darkness, wait
For laughter, gifted with the frequent fate
Of dusk-lit hope, to touch me with the smile 
Of moon and star and joy of that last mile 
Before I reach the sea. The ships are late
And mayhap laden with the precious freight
Dawn brings from Life’s eternal summer isle.

And should I find the sweeter fruits of dream—
The oranges of love and mating song—
I’ll laugh so true the morn will gayly seem 
Endless and ships full laden with a throng 
Of beauty, dreams and loves will come to me 
Out of the surge of yonder silver sea.