Note-Books of Night

Note-Books of Night

Note-Books of Night

Note-Books of Night

Excerpt

1926

We are glad to pass to the gray air, the cold faces, the colorless buildings even from green-shuttered houses wreathed with old wrought-iron balconies -- acorn-scrolleries and daisy-garlands and cupids netted in webs -- where the stitchery of green creepers delicately interweaves and feathers the filigree of iron lace and where, on mornings of March after rain, one can catch the faint perfume of greenery like the scent of maiden-hair fern; from damp days that draw from old walls that rich toasted smoky smell, the emanation of soft coal and masonry; from days of sun that release in the streets the brightness of girls in light dresses -- absinthe-greens and sky-blues and shrimp-pinks -- like the variety of hues of an aviary; from French alleys of slender-limbed water-oaks lit with leaves of a translucent yellow-greens from stems of yellow-green glasses where greenish-pearl and ice-crystal instil iridescent exhilaration; from the music of the Charleston in the streets, heard and lost in the warm March air, running lightly in the head of the city; from fresh fragrance of raw sugar on the docks, as if of a kind of honey that has been purged of its amber-yellow smell and refined to the shadow of something white; from wooden lace of old riverboats, from Doric columns and slim pilasters, from . . .

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