Alex Raichev


$13.34 earned by day labor
$36.78 in all
Which subtracted from the same feeling that I can stand aloof from betimes their winter quarters who have lost their vitality,
And so frequently the most money demanded are never the worst vice betrayed

I sometimes dream of mine to ornament a line
I cannot exaggerate enough even to lay the foundation,
Of a march of crusaders in the shallower parts,
Floating up to feed, where else would they be?
Some absolute goodness somewhere?

With such reminiscences I repeopled the woods
And still from time to time
Here are such that you have done great deeds and sung divine songs,
Which shall still consist of only one or two of my pleasing works
I took up my clothes, and along and out of the water,
Full of glee and youth, as most suppose,
Would not stand much about gracefulness,
And never mean to countenance an effort,
And never hesitated at a certain set of rules,
Called etiquette and politeness,
I made it worth the while

That economy of living is diminished in proportion to what we pay,
Though there are any such, as has been gradually converted into the Middlesex hive,
And that sometimes it was that man could not get on in the year take place only in youth,
With round greasy face and paws,
Wearing a thick new garment to take charge of a dollar,
And having put on mourning in midsummer,

When I am convinced that I discovered
That it should as surely as so many violent blows without being domesticated,
Come floating up to feed,
And the fact that the remedy is worse than the cure,
The blue angels in it,
As the railroad, six feet square by seven deep,
Black melancholy in thought and in November,
Usually in a grass hut,
Listening to the last wrinkle which study had made,
And growing five or six feet beneath the rattling teams and chaises
And tinkling sleighs that travel the ice, seen near at home,
I was plowing
They warned me twice

Once while I just let time wear on leaning against a low-land degeneracy,
Thinking how little this village does for its own conditions,
Changes, perhaps, from half an hour under a rotten stump,
My hoe played the Ranz des Vaches ,
A rich and various crop unreaped by man

Mine was as it is
Worse to have invented and established worship,
Then to let them see they slew or captured any monster,
Or finished any labor
They have only one fact,
Or the three I have for farm produce
Sold at $23.44


Author: Alex Raichev
Date: 2014-04-12
Tags: Markov, poem