I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the stair.

Vine-leaves tap my window,

The snail-track shines on the stones,
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.

It is morning. I awake from a bed of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.
The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.

In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, and tie my tie.

There are horses neighing on far-off hills

Tossing their long white manes,

And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,

Their shoulders black with rains...

It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor...

... It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,

My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,

And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.

There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know...

Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.

Conrad Aiken

ADVICE TO A HORNED TOAD

Hornèd Toad of cloven brown,

Rock souls have dwindled to your eyes
And thrown a splintered end upon your blood.
Night and day have vanished

To you, who squat and watch

Years loosen one sand grain until
Its fall becomes your moment.
Tall things plunge over you,

Slashing their dreams with motion
That holds the death of all they seek,

But you, to whom fierce winds are ripples,

Do not move lest you lose the taste of stillness.

Hornèd Toad of cloven brown,

Never hop from your grey rock crevice

Mute with interwoven beginnings and ends.
The fluid lies of motion

Leave no remembrance behind.

Maxwell Bodenheim

ADVICE TO A BLUE-BIRD

Who can make a delicate adventure

Of walking on the ground?

Who can make grass-blades

Arcades for pertly careless straying?

You alone, who skim against these leaves, Turning all desire into light whips Moulded by your deep blue wing-tips,

You who shrill your unconcern

Into the sternly antique sky.

You to whom all things

Hold an equal kiss of touch.

Mincing, wanton blue-bird,

Grimace at the hoofs of passing men.

You alone can lose yourself

Within a sky, and rob it of its blue!

Maxwell Bodenheim

DEATH

I shall walk down the road.

I shall turn and feel upon my feet

The kisses of Death, like scented rain.

For Death is a black slave with little silver birds

Perched in a sleeping wreath upon his head.
He will tell me, his voice like jewels

Dropped into a satin bag,

How he has tip-toed after me down the road,

His heart made a dark whirlpool with longing for me. Then he will graze me with his hands

And I shall be one of the sleeping, silver birds

Between the cold waves of his hair, as he tip-toes off.

Maxwell Bodenheim