silence, Reassembling in crowded multitudes, massive forms one above another. And I saw in their ridges and hollows, the appearance of a woman Immeasurable, carven in stainless marble, motionless, naked, fair: Her head thrown back, her pointed breasts up-gleaming in chill sunlight, Her heavy flanks dark in the shadow, resting forever inert. And up to her there suddenly clomb and hurried another cloud, Huge, hairy, bulging, and knobby, with dark and knotted brows: And he thrust out long bungling arms to her and drew himself up to her, And I watched them melting together, blue mouth to sad white mouth. 

of silence,

 ORANGE SYMPHONY I Now that all the world is filled With armies clamouring; Now that men no longer live and die, one by one, But in vague indeterminate multitudes:  Now that the trees are coppery towers, Now that the clouds loom southward, Now that the glossy creeper Spatters the walls like spilt wine:  I will go out alone, To catch strong joy of solitude Where the treelines, in gold and scarlet, Swing strong grape-cables up the smouldering face of the hill. II Guns crashing, Thudding, Ululating, Tumultuous. Guns yelping over the cracked earth, Where dry bugles blare. Here in this hollow It is very quiet, Only the wind's hissing laughter In the place of tombs. One by one these gaunt scarred faces Lift up blurred wrinkled inscriptions Silently beseeching me to stop and ponder. What does it matter if I do not stop to read them? No one at all has gone this way that I have chosen before. A leaf drops slowly in silence; It is a long time twisting and hovering on its way to the earth. Guns booming, Bellowing, Crashing, Desperate. Insistent outcry of savage guns, Rocking the gloomy hollow. I will run out like the wind, Snarling, with savage laughter; Like the wind that tosses the grey-black clouds, Against the shot-racked barrier of flaming trees. I will race between the grey guns, And the clouds, like shrapnel exploding, Flinging their hail through the tumult, Bursting, will melt in cold spray. I am the wanderer of the world; No one can hold me. Not the cannon assembled for battle, Nor the gloomy graves of the hollow, Nor the house where I long time slumbered, Nor the hilltop where roads are straggling. My feet must march to the wind. Like a leaf dropping slowly, An orange butterfly turning and twisting, I touch with moist passionate palms the leaden inscriptions Of my past. Then I turn to depart. III The trees dance about the inn; The wind thrusts them into flamelets. Now my thoughts gipsying, Go forth to strange walls and new fires. Mouths stained with brown-red berries, Bronzed cheeks sunken, unshaven, Ragged attire; We swing our guitars 

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