Which Has Speed

A Poem.

What mornings to the west
Move as kitchens move,
With little Timothies about
And growing little girls.
How many dresses are possible for each little girl?
How many kinds of weather are to be for dear little Ann?
How many kitchen-situations for that sweet, dear, all in yellow now,
    Jane?
O, Timothy, suns are waiting for you.
Autos are, sun on them, and changes of mind in autos, sun on them,
    sun changing them all around the lot.
Timothy, Timothy, the world is not all 8:10 in a bright western morning.
Jane, Jane, the world is not all bright yellow dresses having in them
    cute, bright, sharply-talking Jane.
Nor is it sun, nor is it earth, nor is it just men in politics taking out their
    watches from silly, dark vests.
Nor is it just silly dark vests sometimes escaped from two or three suns.
It may be anything but it isn’t daring Ed only.
It may be that but it isn’t hand-claspings by four people low in the
    steerage.
Nor is it a wave that fails to meet another.
Nor is it a choice made with body feeling listless.
Anything’s the world’s but anything’s not this world, nor this world
    alone, at least one way.
Put fat watches over dark cloth in dark cloth—you will be doing the
    universe’s bidding, something how earthlikely allowable, but you’re
    doing no more.
Contemplate small things dying in the west, but there’s more and more.
However dull or sultrily red or shining the sun is, you’ve got other things
    to see and use your fingers on and put between many-paged books
    full of darkly-clothed evilly disposed ecclesiastical people.
Which is all well and timely and which has speed.

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Which Has Speed

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