Autumn 1941 • Vol. III No. 4 Younger PoetsFebruary 17, 2024 |

Notes on a New England Winter

I. From the cold streets of CambridgeThe lapis and basalt of St. Paul’sMakes disturbing division, a goldenAnd Byzantine disarray. Hath notSome golden Paleologus of the City CouncilOrdained this disorderly splendor?Jumbled adornment we have seen beforeIn the rocky palaces of pagan men,In excavations of the rotogravure. Perhaps if the people of this cityWere possessed of a warmer temperament,If the sun stood more hotly over us,Being of one faith a bell to the faithfulAnd a usurer to those more penurious of themselves .... I tell you, in the old daysIt would not have been countenanced. And even nowMany worshippers are worried by the oldBronze and singing gods that in the shadowsPreen and pout and trill,Making themselves at home, and tend to pluckBy the hair what children wander fromThe clear ghastly light of the nave. II. In this ground rests, having burned to stone,Elijah Hendrickson, having these hundred yearsBeen turned to bone and stone, unseen in the earth. The

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I. From the cold streets of CambridgeThe lapis and basalt of St. Paul’sMakes disturbing division, a goldenAnd Byzantine disarray. Hath notSome golden Paleologus of the City CouncilOrdained this disorderly splendor?Jumbled […]

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I. From the cold streets of CambridgeThe lapis and basalt of St. Paul’sMakes disturbing division, a goldenAnd Byzantine disarray. Hath notSome golden Paleologus of the City CouncilOrdained this disorderly splendor?Jumbled […]

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