Nocturne
That scraping of iron on iron when the wind
rises, what is it? Something the wind won’t
quit with, but drags back and forth. . . .
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A Noiseless Patient Spider
A noiseless patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding, . . .
Not for That City
Not for that city of the level sun,
Its golden streets and glittering gates ablaze—
The shadeless, sleepless city of white days, . . .
Not Guilty
The days are dog-eared, the edges torn,
ragged—like those pages
I ripped once out of library books, . . .
Not Here
Searching for pillowcases trimmed
with lace that my mother-in-law
once made, I open the chest of drawers . . .
Not Waving but Drowning
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought . . .
November Cotton Flower
Boll-weevil’s coming, and the winter’s cold,
Made cotton-stalks look rusty, seasons old,
And cotton, scarce as any southern snow, . . .
Nude Descending a Staircase
Toe after toe, a snowing flesh,
a gold of lemon, root and rind,
she sifts in sunlight down the stairs . . .
Nuit Blanche
I want no horns to rouse me up to-night,
And trumpets make too clamorous a ring
To fit my mood, it is so weary white . . .
Numbers
I like the generosity of numbers.
The way, for example,
they are willing to count . . .
