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"The Weeping Burgher" is a poem from Wallace Stevens's first book of poetry, Harmonium. Originally published in 1919, it is in the public domain. The Weeping Burgher It is with a strange malice That I distort the world. Ah! that ill humors Should mask as white girls. And ah! that Scaramouche Should have a black barouche. The sorry verities! Yet in excess, continual, There is cure of sorrow. Permit that if as ghost I come Among the people burning in me still, I come as belle design Of foppish line. And I, then, tortured for old speech, A white of wildly woven rings; I, weeping in a calcined heart, My hands such sharp, imagined things.

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  • The Weeping Burgher (en)
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  • "The Weeping Burgher" is a poem from Wallace Stevens's first book of poetry, Harmonium. Originally published in 1919, it is in the public domain. The Weeping Burgher It is with a strange malice That I distort the world. Ah! that ill humors Should mask as white girls. And ah! that Scaramouche Should have a black barouche. The sorry verities! Yet in excess, continual, There is cure of sorrow. Permit that if as ghost I come Among the people burning in me still, I come as belle design Of foppish line. And I, then, tortured for old speech, A white of wildly woven rings; I, weeping in a calcined heart, My hands such sharp, imagined things. (en)
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  • It is with a strange malice That I distort the world. Ah! that ill humors Should mask as white girls. And ah! that Scaramouche Should have a black barouche. The sorry verities! Yet in excess, continual, There is cure of sorrow. Permit that if as ghost I come Among the people burning in me still, I come as belle design Of foppish line. And I, then, tortured for old speech, A white of wildly woven rings; I, weeping in a calcined heart, My hands such sharp, imagined things. (en)
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  • The Weeping Burgher (en)
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  • "The Weeping Burgher" is a poem from Wallace Stevens's first book of poetry, Harmonium. Originally published in 1919, it is in the public domain. The Weeping Burgher It is with a strange malice That I distort the world. Ah! that ill humors Should mask as white girls. And ah! that Scaramouche Should have a black barouche. The sorry verities! Yet in excess, continual, There is cure of sorrow. Permit that if as ghost I come Among the people burning in me still, I come as belle design Of foppish line. And I, then, tortured for old speech, A white of wildly woven rings; I, weeping in a calcined heart, My hands such sharp, imagined things. (en)
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