William Carlos Williams

I

By the road to the contagious¹ hospital

under the surge of the blue

mottled clouds driven from the

northeast-a cold wind. Beyond， the

waste of broad， muddy fields

brown with dried weeds， standing² and fallen

patches of standing water

the scattering³ of tall trees

All along the road the reddish

purplish， forked， upstanding， twiggy⁴

stuff of bushes and small trees

with dead， brown leaves under them

leafless vines-

Lifeless in appearance， sluggish⁵

dazed spring approaches-

They enter the new world naked，

cold， uncertain of all

save that they enter. All about them

the cold， familiar wind-

Now the grass， tomorrow

the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf

One by one objects are defined-

It quickens： clarity， outline of leaf

But now the stark dignity of

entrance-Still， the profound change

has come upon them： rooted they

grip down and begin to awaken

XVIII

The pure products of America

go crazy——

mountain folk from Kentucky

or the ribbed north end of

Jersey

with its isolate lakes and

valleys， its deaf-mutes， thieves

old names

and promiscuity between

devil-may-care men who have taken

to railroading

out of sheer lust of adventure——

and young slatterns， bathed

in filth

from Monday to Saturday

to be tricked out that night

with gauds

from imaginations which have no

peasant traditions to give them

character

but flutter and flaunt

sheer rags succumbing without

emotion

save numbed terror

under some hedge of choke-cherry

or viburnum——

which they cannot express——

Unless it be that marriage

perhaps

with a dash of Indian blood

will throw up a girl so desolate

so hemmed round

with disease or murder

that she'll be rescued by an

agent——

reared by the state and

sent out at fifteen to work in

some hard-pressed

house in the suburbs——

some doctor's family， some Elsie

voluptuous water

expressing with broken

brain the truth about us——

her great

ungainly hips and flopping breasts

addressed to cheap

jewelry

and rich young men with fine eyes

as if the earth under our feet

were

an excrement of some sky

and we degraded prisoners

destined

to hunger until we eat filth

while the imagination strains

after deer

going by fields of goldenrod in

the stifling heat of September

somehow

it seems to destroy us

It is only in isolate flecks that

something

is given off

No one

to witness

and adjust， no one to drive the car

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