TO A FRIEND CONCERNING SEVERAL LADIES
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ou know there is not muchthat I desire, a few crysanthemumshalf lying on the grass, yellowand brown and white, thetalk of a few people, the trees,an expanse of dried leaves perhapswith ditches among them.But there comesbetween me and these thingsa letteror even a look--well placed,you understand,so that I am confused, twistedfour ways and--left flat,unable to lift the food tomy own mouth:Here is what they say: Come!and come! and come! And ifI do not go I remain stale tomyself and if I go--I have watchedthe city from a distance at nightand wondered why I wrote no poem.Come! yes,the city is ablaze for youand you stand and look at it. And they are right. There isno good in the world except out ofa woman and certain women alonefor certain things. But what ifI arrive like a turtlewith my house on my back ora fish ogling from under water?It will not do. I must besteaming with love, coloredlike a flamingo. For what?To have legs and a silly headand to smell, pah! like a flamingothat soils its own feathers behind.Must I go home filledwith a bad poem?And they say:Who can answer these thingstill he has tried? Your eyesare half closed, you are a child,oh, a sweet one, ready to playbut I will make a man of you andwith love on his shoulder--! And in the marshesthe crickets runon the sunny dike's top andmake burrows there, the waterreflects the reeds and the reedsmove on their stalks and rattle drily.
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