The garden full of spearshafts and shouting and the whine of arrows and the red bows of Tartars and trampling of the sharp hoofs of war-horses. Under the golden moon the men with hairy arms struck off the heads of the tulips in the tulip-bed and of the poets in a row. The king lifted the hand that held the flaming dragon-flower. Him of the snowflakes, he said. On a new white spearshaft the men with hairy arms spitted the king and the black slave who scratched his back with a back-scratcher of emerald. There was a king in China. IV Says the man from Weehawken to the man from Sioux City as they jolt cheek by jowl on the bus up Broadway: --That's her name, Olive Thomas, on the red skysign, died of coke or somethin' way over there in Paris. Too much money. Awful immoral the lives them film stars lead. The eye of the man from Sioux City glints in the eye of the man from Weehawken. Awful ... lives out of sky-signs and lust; curtains of pink silk fluffy troubling the skin rooms all prinkly with chandeliers, bed cream-color with pink silk tassles creased by the slender press of thighs. Her eyebrows are black her lips rubbed scarlet breasts firm as peaches gold curls gold against her cheeks. She dead all of her dead way over there in Paris. O golden Aphrodite. The eye of the man from Weehawken slants away from the eye of the man from Sioux City. They stare at the unquiet gold dripping sky-signs. PHASES OF THE MOON I Again they are plowing the field by the river; in the air exultant a smell of wild garlic crushed out by the shining steel in the furrow that opens softly behind the heavy-paced horses, dark moist noisy with fluttering of sparrows; and their chirping and the clink of the harness chimes like bells; and the plowman walks at one side with sliding steps, his body thrown back from the waist. O the sudden sideways lift of his back and his arms as he swings the plow from the furrow. And behind the river sheening blue and the white beach and the sails of schooners, and hoarsely laughing the black crows wheel and glint. Ha! Haha! Other springs you answered their laughing and shouted at them across the fallow lands that smelt of wild garlic and pinewoods and earth. This year the crows flap cawing overhead Ha! Haha! and the plow-harness clinks and the pines echo the moaning shore. No one laughs back at the laughing crows. No one shouts from the edge of the new-plowed field. _Sandy Point_ II The full moon soars above the misty street filling the air with a shimmer of silver. Roofs and chimney-pots cut silhouettes of dark against the milk-washed sky! O moon fast waning!