A bending flower rises from its mouth And sways like the vein of a zephyr. Threads of moonlight float entangled over it, Delicate as the breath of a dying woman. Souls come whispering from its ancient lips, Laden with thin secrets, And torn by the long nails of idiot Gods.... Pale dancers arise, whirling listlessly, Expiring in a writhing languor. Heavy-lidded eyes crawl out and open vacantly and close.... Dried whisps of water break into blue wings. A sleeping woman’s arm reaches up and curves into a sigh And scratches at the air with opalescent claws. Dead pearls drift in a dead circle—till, quivering, A slow finger rises, balancing a grey moon on its tip. And then a severed face squeezes out and lolls to and fro, Its washed purple lips leering with a grotesque sin. The Goldfish in a Bowl A tiny shimmering courtesan Dressed in red spangles, Weaves a monotonous thread of painted rubies Through the stagnant curtains of her room. Stifling under faint rags, A dumb enchanted nightingale Tosses in droll anguish, Dreaming of the sapphire roses and the crystal fringe and the topaz silks That were her lovers. A Nude The rich brocade of night, Sewn with the red dust of roses And the topaz breath of the sleeping sun Hangs from the cool ivoried silk of her shoulders. The winged beacons of her breasts Gleam with golden moonlight. And her eyes are like purple bosomed birds That circle and beat against the azure gloom. Her nakedness is an opal mirror, Quivering with splintered images. Her nakedness is a white kiss. Burning on the shadowed lips of the night. Her nakedness is the flowing of ghostly water Under fierce moons— The poplar silver of the wind that dances in the gardens at night. Her nakedness is the golden fabric woven out of bloody grapes And the dead mists of incense. “The Compleat Amateur” or How Not to be An Artist HAROLD BAUER (_No, I cannot write you an article. And I add to this the expression of my fervent hope that no Amateurs are going to be allowed to scribble for_ THE LITTLE REVIEW. _Speaking as a subscriber, I haven’t the least desire to read any of H. Bauer’s clumsy attempts to express himself in a medium that is foreign to him. Let him stick to his business.... You must write the article you have in mind yourself. From the depths of your artistic intuitions draw forth the material and give away the secrets—which are no secrets. Moreover, don’t confine yourself to music, much less to piano playing; take in the whole field of art and call it “The Compleat Amateur, or, How Not To Be an Artist.” I suggest the following headings.—Extract from a letter of the Author._)