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 something 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 with sharp voices over those things that interest them. But we who are wiser shut ourselves in on either hand and no one knows whether we think good or evil. Meanwhile, the old man who goes about gathering dog-lime walks in the gutter without looking up and his tread is more majestic than that of the Episcopal minister approaching the pulpit of a Sunday. These things astonish me beyond words. LOVE SONG Daisies are broken petals are news of the day stems lift to the grass tops they catch on shoes part in the middle leave root and leaves secure. Black branches carry square leaves to the wood’s top. They hold firm break with a roar show the white! Your moods are slow the shedding of leaves and sure the return in May! We walked in your father’s grove and saw the great oaks lying with roots ripped from the ground. M. B. Winter has spent this snow out of envy, but spring is here! He sits at the breakfast table in his yellow hair and disdains even the sun walking outside in spangled slippers: He looks out: there is a glare of lights before a theater,-- a sparkling lady passes quickly to the seclusion of her carriage. Presently under the dirty, wavy heaven of a borrowed room he will make re-inhaled tobacco smoke his clouds and try them against the sky’s limits! TRACT I will teach you my townspeople how to perform a funeral-- for you have it over a troop of artists-- unless one should scour the world-- you have the ground sense necessary. See! the hearse leads. I begin with a design for a hearse. For Christ’s sake not black-- nor white either-- and not polished! Let it be weathered-- like a farm wagon-- with gilt wheels (this could be applied fresh at small expense) or no wheels at all: a rough dray to drag over the ground. Knock the glass out! My God--glass, my townspeople! For what purpose? Is it for the dead to look out or for us...