City of Dreams Texts and Criticism

Unit on Walt Whitman

Texts: Crossing Brooklyn Ferry

1819-1892

Flood-tide below me! I see you face to face!
Clouds of the west–sun there half an hour high–I see you also face
to face.

Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, how curious
you are to me!
On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning
home, are more curious to me than you suppose,
And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more
to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose.

The impalpable sustenance of me from all things at all hours of the day,
The simple, compact, well-join’d scheme, myself disintegrated, every
one disintegrated yet part of the scheme,
The similitudes of the past and those of the future,
The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings, on
the walk in the street and the passage over the river,
The current rushing so swiftly and swimming with me far away,
The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them,
The certainty of others, the life, love, sight, hearing of others.

Others will enter the gates of the ferry and cross from shore to shore,
Others will watch the run of the flood-tide,
Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the
heights of Brooklyn to the south and east,
Others will see the islands large and small;
Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half
an hour high,
A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others
will see them,
Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring-in of the flood-tide, the
falling-back to the sea of the ebb-tide.

It avails not, time nor place–distance avails not,
I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many
generations hence,
Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt,
Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd,
Just as you are refresh’d by the gladness of the river and the
bright flow, I was refresh’d,
Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift
current, I stood yet was hurried,
Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships and the
thick-stemm’d pipes of steamboats, I look’d.

I too many and many a time cross’d the river of old,
Watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls, saw them high in the air
floating with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies,
Saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies and left
the rest in strong shadow,
Saw the slow-wheeling circles and the gradual edging toward the south,
Saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,
Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,
Look’d at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape of my
head in the sunlit water,
Look’d on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward,
Look’d on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,
Look’d toward the lower bay to notice the vessels arriving,
Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,
Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at anchor,
The sailors at work in the rigging or out astride the spars,
The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender
serpentine pennants,
The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilothouses,
The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels,
The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sunset,
The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the
frolic-some crests and glistening,
The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the
granite storehouses by the docks,
On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flank’d on
each side by the barges, the hay-boat, the belated lighter,
On the neighboring shore the fires from the foundry chimneys burning
high and glaringly into the night,
Casting their flicker of black contrasted with wild red and yellow
light over the tops of houses, and down into the clefts of streets.

These and all else were to me the same as they are to you,
I loved well those cities, loved well the stately and rapid river,
The men and women I saw were all near to me,
Others the same–others who look back on me because I look’d forward
to them,
(The time will come, though I stop here to-day and to-night.)

What is it then between us?
What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?

Whatever it is, it avails not–distance avails not, and place avails not,
I too lived, Brooklyn of ample hills was mine,
I too walk’d the streets of Manhattan island, and bathed in the
waters around it,
I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me,
In the day among crowds of people sometimes they came upon me,
In my walks home late at night or as I lay in my bed they came upon me,
I too had been struck from the float forever held in solution,
I too had receiv’d identity by my body,
That I was I knew was of my body, and what I should be I knew I
should be of my body.

It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall,
The dark threw its patches down upon me also,
The best I had done seem’d to me blank and suspicious,
My great thoughts as I supposed them, were they not in reality meagre?
Nor is it you alone who know what it is to be evil,
I am he who knew what it was to be evil,
I too knitted the old knot of contrariety,
Blabb’d, blush’d, resented, lied, stole, grudg’d,
Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak,
Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant,
The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me.
The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting,

Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting,
Was one with the rest, the days and haps of the rest,
Was call’d by my nighest name by clear loud voices of young men as
they saw me approaching or passing,
Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the negligent leaning of
their flesh against me as I sat,
Saw many I loved in the street or ferry-boat or public assembly, yet
never told them a word,
Lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing, gnawing, sleeping,
Play’d the part that still looks back on the actor or actress,
The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we like,
Or as small as we like, or both great and small.

Closer yet I approach you,
What thought you have of me now, I had as much of you–I laid in my
stores in advance,
I consider’d long and seriously of you before you were born.

Who was to know what should come home to me?
Who knows but I am enjoying this?
Who knows, for all the distance, but I am as good as looking at you
now, for all you cannot see me?

Ah, what can ever be more stately and admirable to me than
mast-hemm’d Manhattan?
River and sunset and scallop-edg’d waves of flood-tide?
The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the
twilight, and the belated lighter?
What gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand, and with voices I
love call me promptly and loudly by my nighest name as approach?
What is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man that
looks in my face?
Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you?

We understand then do we not?
What I promis’d without mentioning it, have you not accepted?
What the study could not teach–what the preaching could not
accomplish is accomplish’d, is it not?

Flow on, river! flow with the flood-tide, and ebb with the ebb-tide!
Frolic on, crested and scallop-edg’d waves!
Gorgeous clouds of the sunset! drench with your splendor me, or the
men and women generations after me!
Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of passengers!
Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta! stand up, beautiful hills of Brooklyn!
Throb, baffled and curious brain! throw out questions and answers!
Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of solution!
Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house or street or public assembly!
Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and musically call me by my
nighest name!
Live, old life! play the part that looks back on the actor or actress!
Play the old role, the role that is great or small according as one
makes it!
Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may not in unknown ways be
looking upon you;
Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who lean idly, yet
haste with the hasting current;
Fly on, sea-birds! fly sideways, or wheel in large circles high in the air;

Receive the summer sky, you water, and faithfully hold it till all

downcast eyes have time to take it from you!
Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of my head, or any
one’s head, in the sunlit water!
Come on, ships from the lower bay! pass up or down, white-sail’d
schooners, sloops, lighters!
Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lower’d at sunset!
Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys! cast black shadows at
nightfall! cast red and yellow light over the tops of the houses!
Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate what you are,
You necessary film, continue to envelop the soul,
About my body for me, and your body for you, be hung our divinest aromas,
Thrive, cities–bring your freight, bring your shows, ample and
sufficient rivers,
Expand, being than which none else is perhaps more spiritual,
Keep your places, objects than which none else is more lasting.

You have waited, you always wait, you dumb, beautiful ministers,
We receive you with free sense at last, and are insatiate henceforward,
Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or withhold yourselves from us,
We use you, and do not cast you aside–we plant you permanently within us,
We fathom you not–we love you–there is perfection in you also,
You furnish your parts toward eternity,
Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul.

Criticism

Poetry Styles

The style of writing poetry differs from person to person–long or short meters, three or four lines to a stanza. But the great thing is, no matter how a poem is written, it still holds great emotion. Some common techniques used in poetry are onomatopoeia, alliteration, assonance, rhyming, simile and metaphor.

Onomatopoeia is one of the easiest to learn and use (but not spell). The definition of onomatopoeia is a word imitating a sound. For example; ‘buzz’, ‘moo’ and ‘beep’. This can be used in a variety of ways giving the reader a ‘hands on’ feel. Onomatopoeia is a great way to have the user experience one of the senses often overlooked in poetry: sound.

Another technique that you might be familiar with is alliteration. This procedure is used by starting three or more words with the same sound. An example of this would be ‘The crazy crackling crops.’ The three words don’t have to have the exact same beginning to have this effect. Alliteration is a great tool to use for descriptions along with raising the readers attention about a specific subject–great for dark and horror writings.

The next style is assonance. It is defined as a repetition of vowel sounds within syllables with changing consonants. This is used in many different circumstances. One would be ’tilting at windmills.’ Notice the vowels within each syllable sound the same.

Rhyming is probably the most well-known technique used. However unlike popular belief, it does not need to be within a poem to make it a poem. It is what it is.. a technique. It is however, a popular way to establish flow within writing.

As for similes, they are an expression that compares one thing to another. A paradigm of this would be ‘The milk tasted like pickles.’ This method is used in all forms of poetry and generally has the words ‘like’ or ‘as.’

It may be used to help your readers better identify with characteristics of objects or circumstances.

A metaphor is a word or phrase used one way to mean another. Metaphors are sometimes hard to spot and take some thinking to figure out, but they give writers more power to express their thoughts about a certain situation. One famous case where a metaphor is used is within ‘The Raven’ by Edgar Allen Poe. In fact, not only is it found within the story, the story itself is a metaphor of memory and the constant reminder of the narrator’s loss.

Meter in poetry

In verse and poetry, meter is a recurring pattern of stressed (accented, or long) and unstressed (unaccented, or short) syllables in lines of a set length. For example, suppose a line contains ten syllables (set length) in which the first syllable is unstressed, the second is stressed, the third is unstressed, the fourth is stressed, and so on until the line reaches the tenth syllable. The line would look like the following one (the opening line of Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18″) containing a pattern of unstressed and stressed syllables. The unstressed syllables are in blue and the stressed syllables in red.

Shall I com PARE thee TO a SUM mer’s DAY?

Each pair of unstressed and stressed syllables makes up a unit called a foot. The line contains five feet in all, as shown next:

….1………….. 2……………..3…………..4……………. 5

Shall.I..|..com.PARE..|..thee.TO..|..a.SUM..|..mer’s DAY?

…….A foot containing an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable (as above) is called an iamb. Because there are five feet in the line, all iambic, the meter of the line is iambic pentameter. The prefix pent in pentameter means five (Greek: penta, five). Pent is joined to words or word roots to form new words indicating five. For example, the Pentagon in Washington has five sides, the Pentateuch of the Bible consists of five books, and a pentathlon in a sports event has five events. Thus, poetry lines with five feet are in pentameter.
…….Some feet in verse and poetry have different stress patterns. For example, one type of foot consists of two unstressed syllables followed by a stressed one. Another type consists of a stressed one followed by an unstressed one. In all, there are six types of feet:
.

Iamb (Iambic)	Unstressed + Stressed	Two Syllables
Trochee (Trochaic)	Stressed + Unstressed	Two Syllables
Spondee (Spondaic)	Stressed + Stressed	Two Syllables
Anapest (Anapestic)	Unstressed + Unstressed + Stressed	Three Syllables
Dactyl (Dactylic	Stressed + Unstressed + Unstressed	Three Syllables
Pyrrhic	Unstressed + Unstressed	Two Syllables

.
The length of lines—and thus the meter—can also vary. Following are the types of meter and the line length:
.

Monometer	One Foot
Dimeter	Two Feet
Trimeter	Three Feet
Tetrameter	Four Feet
Pentameter	Five Feet
Hexameter	Six Feet
Heptameter	Seven Feet
Octameter	Eight Feet

.
…….Meter is determined by the type of foot and the number of feet in a line. Thus, a line with three iambic feet is known as iambic trimeter. A line with six dactylic feet is known as dactylic hexameter.

The line quoted above – Shall I com PARE thee TO a SUM mer’s DAY? – is one of the most commonly used forms of metrical patterns, “iambic pentameter.” Take John Keats: “To swell the gourd and plump the hazel shells.”

Trochee reverses the pattern, instead stressing the first syllable, followed by an unstressed, for example – “Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater” – which has six feet and is therefore “trochaic hexameter.”

In aother common form, the dactyl, a foot is composed of three syllables, stressed followed by two unstressed syllables as in “This is the forest primeval, ”

read THIS is the / FOR est prim /Eval

“Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking”

By Walt Whitman

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,

Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle,
Out of the boy’s mother’s womb, and from the nipples of her breasts,
Out of the Ninth Month midnight,
Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his
bed, wandered alone, bare-headed, barefoot,
Down from the showered halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they were
alive,
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,
From your memories, sad brother–from the fitful risings and failings
I heard,
From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears,
From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent
mist,
From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease,
From the myriad thence-aroused words,
From the word stronger and more delicious than any,
From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting,
As a flock, twittering, rising, or overheard passing,
Borne hither–ere all eludes me, hurriedly,
A man–yet by these tears a little boy again,
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,
I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,
Taking all hints to use them–but swiftly leaping beyond them,

A reminiscence sing.

REMINISCENCE

Once, Paumanok,
When the snows had melted, and the Fifth Month grass was growing,
Up this sea-shore, in some briers,
Two guests from Alabama–two together,
And their nest, and four light-green eggs, spotted with brown,
And every day the he-bird, to and fro, near at hand,
And every day the she-bird, crouched on her nest, silent, with bright
eyes,
And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them,
Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.

Shine! Shine!
Pour down your warmth, great Sun!
While we bask–we two together.

Two together!
Winds blow South, or winds blow North,
Day come white, or night come black,
Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
Singing all time, minding no time,
If we two but keep together.

Till of a sudden,
May-be killed, unknown to her mate,
One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the nest;
Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next,
Nor ever appeared again.

And thenceforward, all summer, in the sound of the sea,
And at night, under the full of the moon, in calmer weather,
Over the hoarse surging of the sea,
Or flitting from brier to brier by day,
I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one, the he-bird,
The solitary guest from Alabama.

Blow! Blow!
Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok’s shore,
I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me.

Yes, when the stars glistened,
All night long, on the prong of a moss-scallop’d stake,
Down, almost amid the slapping waves,
Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears.

He called on his mate,
He poured forth the meanings which I, of all men, know.

Yes, my brother, I know,
The rest might not–but I have treasured every note,
For once, and more than once, dimly, down to the beach gliding,
Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows,
Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights
after their sorts,
The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing,
I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair,
Listened long and long.

Listened, to keep, to sing–now translating the notes,
Following you, my brother.

Soothe! Soothe!
Close on its wave soothes the wave behind,
And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close,
But my love soothes not me.

Low hangs the moon–it rose late,
O it is lagging–O I think it is heavy with love.

O madly the sea pushes upon the land,
With love–with love.

O night!
O do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers?
What is that little black thing I see there in the white?

Loud! Loud!
Loud I call to you my love!
High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves,
Surely you must know who is here,
You must know who I am, my love.

Low-hanging moon!
What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow?
O it is the shape of my mate!
O moon, do not keep her from me any longer.

Land! O land!
Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back
again, if you would,
For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look.

O rising stars!
Perhaps the one I want so much will rise with some of you.

O throat!
Sound clearer through the atmosphere!
Pierce the woods, the earth,
Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want.

Shake out, carols!
Solitary here–the night’s carols!
Carols of lonesome love! Death’s carols!
Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon!
O, under that moon, where she droops almost down into the sea!
O reckless, despairing carols.

But soft!
Sink low—soft!
Soft! Let me just murmur,
And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea,
For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me,
So faint–I must be still to listen,
But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to
me.

Hither, my love!
Here I am! Here!
With this just-sustained note I announce myself to you,
This gentle call is for you, my love.

Do not be decoyed elsewhere!
That is the whistle of the wind–it is not my voice,
That is the fluttering of the spray,
Those are the shadows of leaves.

O darkness! O in vain!
O I am very sick and sorrowful.

O brown halo in the sky, near the moon, dropping upon the sea!
O troubled reflection in the sea!
O throat! O throbbing heart!
O all–and I singing uselessly all the night.

Murmur! Murmur on!
O murmurs–you yourselves make me continue to sing, I know not
why.

O past! O joy!
In the air–in the woods–over fields,
Loved! Loved! Loved! Loved! Loved!
Loved–but no more with me,
We two together no more.

The aria sinking,
All else continuing–the stars shining,
The winds blowing–the notes of the wondrous bird echoing,
With angry moans the fierce old mother yet, as ever, incessantly
moaning,
On the sands of Paumanok’s shore gray and rustling,
The yellow half-moon, enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of
the sea almost touching,
The boy extatic–with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the
atmosphere dallying,
The love in the heart pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously bursting,
The aria’s meaning, the ears, the Soul, swiftly depositing,
The strange tears down the checks coursing,
The colloquy there–the trio–each uttering,
The undertone–the savage old mother, incessantly crying,
To the boy’s Soul’s questions sullenly timing–some drowned secret
hissing,
To the outsetting bard of love.

Bird! (then said the boy’s Soul),
Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it mostly to me?
For I that was a child, my tongue’s use sleeping,
Now that I have heard you,
Now in a moment I know what I am for–I awake,
And already a thousand singers–a thousand songs, clearer, louder,
more sorrowful than yours,
A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me,
Never to die.

O throes!
O you demon, singing by yourself–projecting me,
O solitary me, listening–never more shall I cease imitating,
perpetuating you,
Never more shall I escape,
Never more shall the reverberations,
Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,
Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what
there, in the night,
By the sea, under the yellow and sagging moon,
The dusky demon aroused–the fire, the sweet hell within,
The unknown want, the destiny of me.

O give me some clew!
O if I am to have so much, let me have more!
O a word! O what is my destination?
O I fear it is henceforth chaos!
O how joys, dreads, convolutions, human shapes, and all shapes,
spring as from graves around me!
O phantoms you cover all the land, and all the sea!
O I cannot see in the dimness whether you smile or frown upon me;
O vapor, a look, a word! O well-beloved!
O you dear women’s and men’s phantoms!

A word then, (for I will conquer it,)
The word final, superior to all,
Subtle, sent up–what is it? I listen;
Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-waves?
Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands?

Answering, the sea,
Delaying not, hurrying not,
Whispered me through the night, and very plainly before daybreak,
Lisped to me constantly the low and delicious word Death,
And again Death–ever Death, Death, Death,
Hissing melodious, neither like the bird, nor like my aroused child’s
heart,
But edging near, as privately for me, rustling at my feet,
And creeping thence steadily up to my ears,
Death, Death, Death, Death, Death.

Which I do not forget,
But fuse the song of two together,
That was sung to me in the moonlight on Paumanok’s gray beach,
With the thousand responsive songs, at random,
My own songs, awaked from that hour,
And with them the key, the word up from the waves,
The word of the sweetest song, and all songs,
That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet,
The sea whispered me.

Herman Melville, “Bartleby the Scrivener, A Tale of Wall Street”

Job’s Lament

1Afterward Job opened his mouth and cursed the day of his birth.

2 And Job said,

3“Let the day perish on which I was to be born,
And the night which said, ‘A boy is conceived.’

4“May that day be darkness;
Let not God above care for it,
Nor light shine on it.

5“Let darkness and black gloom claim it;
Let a cloud settle on it;
Let the blackness of the day terrify it.

6“As for that night, let darkness seize it;
Let it not rejoice among the days of the year;
Let it not come into the number of the months.

7“Behold, let that night be barren;
Let no joyful shout enter it.

8“Let those curse it who curse the day,
Who are prepared to rouse Leviathan.

9“Let the stars of its twilight be darkened;
Let it wait for light but have none,
And let it not see the breaking dawn;

10Because it did not shut the opening of my mother’s womb,
Or hide trouble from my eyes.

11“Why did I not die at birth,
Come forth from the womb and expire?

12“Why did the knees receive me,
And why the breasts, that I should suck?

13“For now I would have lain down and been quiet;
I would have slept then, I would have been at rest,

14With kings and with counselors of the earth,
Who rebuilt ruins for themselves;

15Or with princes who had gold,
Who were filling their houses with silver.

16“Or like a miscarriage which is discarded, I would not be,
As infants that never saw light.

17“There the wicked cease from raging,
And there the weary are at rest.

18“The prisoners are at ease together;
They do not hear the voice of the taskmaster.

19“The small and the great are there,
And the slave is free from his master.

20“Why is light given to him who suffers,
And life to the bitter of soul,

21Who long for death, but there is none,
And dig for it more than for hidden treasures,

22Who rejoice greatly,
And exult when they find the grave?

23“Why is light given to a man whose way is hidden,
And whom God has hedged in?

24“For my groaning comes at the sight of my food,
And my cries pour out like water.

25“For what I fear comes upon me,
And what I dread befalls me.

26“I am not at ease, nor am I quiet,
And I am not at rest, but turmoil comes.”

POEM

An Urban Convalescence

by James Merrill

James Merrill

Out for a walk, after a week in bed,

I find them tearing up part of my block

And, chilled through, dazed and lonely, join the dozen

In meek attitudes, watching a huge crane

Fumble luxuriously in the filth of years.

Her jaws dribble rubble. An old man

Laughs and curses in her brain,

Bringing to mind the close of The White Goddess.

As usual in New York, everything is torn down

Before you have had time to care for it.

Head bowed, at the shrine of noise, let me try to recall

What building stood here. Was there a building at all?

I have lived on this same street for a decade.

Wait. Yes. Vaguely a presence rises

Some five floors high, of shabby stone

—Or am I confusing it with another one

In another part of town, or of the world?—

And over its lintel into focus vaguely

Misted with blood (my eyes are shut)

A single garland sways, stone fruit, stone leaves,

Which years of grit had etched until it thrust

Roots down, even into the poor soil of my seeing.

When did the garland become part of me?

I ask myself, amused almost,

Then shiver once from head to toe,

Transfixed by a particular cheap engraving of garlands

Bought for a few francs long ago,

All calligraphic tendril and cross-hatched rondure,

Ten years ago, and crumpled up to stanch

Boughs dripping, whose white gestures filled a cab,

And thought of neither then nor since.

Also, to clasp them, the small, red-nailed hand

Of no one I can place. Wait. No. Her name, her features

Lie toppled underneath that year’s fashions.

The words she must have spoken, setting her face

To fluttering like a veil, I cannot hear now,

Let alone understand.

So that I am already on the stair,

As it were, of where I lived,

When the whole structure shudders at my tread

And soundlessly collapses, filling

The air with motes of stone.

Onto the still erect building next door

Are pressed levels and hues—

Pocked rose, streaked greens, brown whites.

Who drained the pousse-café?

Wires and pipes, snapped off at the roots, quiver.

Well, that is what life does. I stare

A moment longer, so. And presently

The massive volume of the world

Closes again.

Upon that book I swear

To abide by what it teaches:

Gospels of ugliness and waste,

Of towering voids, of soiled gusts,

Of a shrieking to be faced

Full into, eyes astream with cold—

With cold?

All right then. With self-knowledge.

Indoors at last, the pages of Time are apt

To open, and the illustrated mayor of New York,

Given a glimpse of how and where I work,

To note yet one more house that can be scrapped.

Unwillingly I picture

My walls weathering in the general view.

It is not even as though the new

Buildings did very much for architecture.

Suppose they did. The sickness of our time requires

That these as well be blasted in their prime.

You would think the simple fact of having lasted

Threatened our cities like mysterious fires.

There are certain phrases which to use in a poem

Is like rubbing silver with quicksilver. Bright

But facile, the glamour deadens overnight.

For instance, how “the sickness of our time”

Enhances, then debases, what I feel.

At my desk I swallow in a glass of water

No longer cordial, scarcely wet, a pill

They had told me not to take until much later.

With the result that back into my imagination

The city glides, like cities seen from the air,

Mere smoke and sparkle to the passenger

Having in mind another destination

Which now is not that honey-slow descent

Of the Champs-Élysées, her hand in his,

But the dull need to make some kind of house

Out of the life lived, out of the love spent

Hart Crane, The Bridge

How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
The seagull’s wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty–

Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes
As apparitional as sails that cross
Some page of figures to be filed away;
–Till elevators drop us from our day . . .

I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights
With multitudes bent toward some flashing scene
Never disclosed, but hastened to again,
Foretold to other eyes on the same screen;

And Thee, across the harbor, silver-paced
As though the sun took step of thee, yet left
Some motion ever unspent in thy stride,–
Implicitly thy freedom staying thee!

Out of some subway scuttle, cell or loft
A bedlamite speeds to thy parapets,
Tilting there momently, shrill shirt ballooning,
A jest falls from the speechless caravan.

Down Wall, from girder into street noon leaks,
A rip-tooth of the sky’s acetylene;
All afternoon the cloud-flown derricks turn . . .
Thy cables breathe the North Atlantic still.

And obscure as that heaven of the Jews,
Thy guerdon . . . Accolade thou dost bestow
Of anonymity time cannot raise:
Vibrant reprieve and pardon thou dost show.

O harp and altar, of the fury fused,
(How could mere toil align thy choiring strings!)
Terrific threshold of the prophet’s pledge,
Prayer of pariah, and the lover’s cry,–

Again the traffic lights that skim thy swift
Unfractioned idiom, immaculate sigh of stars,
Beading thy path–condense eternity:
And we have seen night lifted in thine arms.

Under thy shadow by the piers I waited;
Only in darkness is thy shadow clear.
The City’s fiery parcels all undone,
Already snow submerges an iron year . . .

O Sleepless as the river under thee,
Vaulting the sea, the prairies’ dreaming sod,
Unto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend
And of the curveship lend a myth to God.

Hart Crane