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Late at nightmen entered her ground-floorroom via the window.
A windfall of raucous jeersswirls down on my bent head.Earth burns, slant shadows
on which the lunar spring descends‚blanching every shard with halo splendor,chips of broken cones, sheen
Probablyevening is falling. Not because of the years,which are numerous, but because the play
It was where the wooden bridgecrosses to Porto Corsini on the open seaand a few men, in slow motion, lower
When, out of the blue. Saint Martin shakeshis embers down, stirring the fire in the bottom pitof Ontario’s black furnace—
Now that the last shreds of tobaccodie at your gesture in the crystal bowl,to the ceiling slowly
An “accelerated course” in French taste for tourists who are still in need of it ought to begin, in my opinion, with a visit to the Marche aux Puces and end with a visit to the studio of Georges Braque. On the one hand the odds and ends, coffee pots, cast-off rags, the second hand goods, in short, produced by several centuries of a unified and centralized culture; on the other, the same objects interpenetrated and flattened out in compositions that have little to do with the well-known genre of thenature morte, although they deserve the name much more legitimately than, for example, those by Chardin or Cezanne, which are so much more vives.