In a window a boy catches flies.
A badly soiled baby gets angry.
On the horizon a train moves through windy meadows:
Slowly paints a long thick stroke.
Like typewriters hackney hooves clatter.
A dust-covered, noisy athletic club comes along.
Brutal shouts stream from bars for coachmen.
Yet fine bells mix with them.
On the fairgrounds where athletes wrestle,
Everything is dark and indistinct.
A barrel organ howls and scullery maids sing.
A man is smashing a rotting woman.



The Excursion


(Dedicated to Kurt Lubasch, July 15, 1912)

You, I can endure these stolid
Rooms and barren streets
And the red sun on the houses,
And the books read
A million times ago.
Come, we must go far
Away from the city.
Let us lie down
In this gentle meadow.
Let us raise, threatening yet helpless