Arranging a Hit_ ) (Riverside, 1933); _Plays I_ (Brentano's / Riverside, 1935); _Plays II_ (Brentano's / Riverside, 1935); _Plays III_ (Brentano's / Riverside, 1937). The last three volumes were edited by Louis Kronenberger. A new, posthumous edition of all three volumes was made by Edward Wagenknecht and published by Garland. _Selected Short Stories and Poems_ : "The Two Sisters" (1918); "The Casket of Pistols" (1919); "Two Friends" (1920); "Black Beast" (1921); "The Flower" (1921); "The Whip" (1921); "The Blonde" (1922); "Three Sisters" (1922); "The Duel" (1923); "Father and Son" (1923); "Miss Reef" (1924); "Old Music and the Old Flute" (1924); "The Duel" (1924); "The Dead Man" (1924); "The Man Who Looked Like Lincoln" (1925); "Battle Monsters" (1926); "Waltz in A" (1926); "The Duel" (1926); "The Duel" (1926); "The Stamp of Love" (1926); "The Duel" (1926); "The Three Sisters" (1926); "The Duel" (1927); "In the Black Room" (1927); "The Sea-Wolf" (1927); "Old Music and the Old Flute" (1927); "The Duel" (1927); "The Duel" (1928); "The End of the Tour" (1928); "Thousand Dollar Bill" (1929); "The Blonde" (1930); "The Stamp of Love" (1930); "The Duel" (1931); "The Duel" (1932); "The End of the Tour" (1932); "In the Dark" (1933); "The Man Who Looked Like Lincoln" (1933); "The Duel" (1934); "On the Road" (1935); "The Duel" (1935); "Death in the Afternoon" (1935); "A Matter of Convenience" (1935); "The Man Who Looked Like Lincoln" (1936); "The Man Who Looked Like Lincoln" (1937). # _To My Wife_ > On a February morning, after a night of severe > blizzard, a few hours of blistering heat, > snow melting away as we talked > on the living room couch, our heads > turned away to either side, > I heard snow beginning to slip off the roof, > its dull and monotonous sound like breathing > as it melted slowly, steadily, > making room for the sun. When a patch > of snow at the edge of the roof, at the very > edge, fell away, I closed my eyes. > You said that it was only the chimney breathing. # _Sketches of Dresden_ > For some time now I've been trying to recall > my last meeting with the writer Hesselberg, > who was always known as Harry, and also > Sebastian. He used to talk about this: > I don't know what he meant when he said: "We're > going to the country to find out how little > we really know about everything." I'd like > to remember where we went, > and what time of day it was, > and why we went to that country at all. > We had a conversation about a man > named Pessagno, whom I was with in Dresden > three or four times. I'm not at all > sure of the time and place. At that time > I didn't know how to remember very much, > and yet I was always happy to see > Hesselberg or Sebastian. Their friendship > was my own, and yet I am able to think > of myself as a separate being. "So that's > how it works." A very strange thing. > In the end I think I have done what we do > in the face of nothing but death: > I've lived on and on and on. > I said it was a cold day, > that the wind was blowing; that the sky was > thick with cumulus clouds and the trees in > full bloom. That it was spring. > And I said: "All three things are true." # _Two Scenes in Dresden_ > We were walking home from a house on the outskirts > of town. You said we were walking toward the town > and I said we were walking away. Then I began to wonder > why you hadn't ever written a poem. > This was the way I imagined that conversation, > and yet this has nothing to do with what I meant > when I told you once: _I don't understand, > you must write your poems for yourself, I need you > to write, please_." That afternoon I saw the two > of us at the edge of a town built on sand and water. > I didn't understand. The first thing > I did was go home. When I awoke the next morning > I found that my love had finally begun to write, > and she had asked me to come to her by telephone, > from time to time. I asked her not to give > up what she'd begun so that I might see it. # _In Dresden_ > I said we were walking up the narrow street, > a short distance from the home we were visiting, > we were walking toward the town, the town > was going on without us. # _In Dresden_ > I said we were walking up the narrow street > while everyone who saw us began to say > that the two of us were walking toward the town. > The town's been going on without us. # _In Dresden_ > I said we were walking along the river, > the river was running by itself. > The birds chirped in the distance. > The birds continued to chirp. # _In Dresden_ > The train was leaving in a few hours. I said: > It's cold. We can't stand the cold here. > I asked you to remember all those other times, > when we were both together, and now > we would be standing at some distance from each other. > These are the times when we forget > that we are part of a bigger picture, > that things happen not just to us, > but to all of us. # _Dresden_ > I walked down the street where everyone is > saying: "The birds are all in love, the birds are > in love." I said: "This must be the place, > this must be the place where we'll be happy." # _In Dresden_ > I'm sure I didn't remember anything. > We have no past, we don't know what it was like > to talk about what was happening. I said > to myself: _it's true, they're not here. They'll never > be together, they're gone and there's nothing left. > But I'll always remember your love, > and in my memory, I'll never forget."_ # _In Dresden_ > I didn't know that we were walking through the trees > toward the river. I was afraid the trees > would catch fire. We thought they were on fire. > The fire was in the trees. The birds > were flying back and forth between the trees > and us. We realized the birds > were in love, but when we walked by > the fire in the trees > our clothes weren't on fire. We had nothing > to fear. I was afraid we were going to burn up > and die, that nothing would happen and the birds > would fly around us. I think > we walked in the direction of where the