Portrait of F.B. [Frances Blood]
by Gertrude Stein

A peal is that mountain which makes a ring and is ringing.
There is no squeak, there is no touch there is no lump,
a light bed is left when it is carried away,
it has no temper, it has when it has, it has the bent bed-spread,
it lies like that left not limply and next to lightly
and no mixed more. It is so christened when it is there.
It has that space to identify. It is the mending of the beam
and it is not clear and shows the courage more
of the plentiful timber which is not scattered and put together.
It is so lightly clad and furs show it. It is so planter.
There is no occasion and the copy is not reversed to so little,
there is nothing tiny.

Leave the package will the book use the warmer there,
sight the sound that has no platter, season all the simple ginger,
make a bucket simpler.

Praise the lion and the rat, see the morsels fairly,
show the swimming of the rat show the rabbit winning.
Bestow the light and chase it there, see the hall is dimmer,
see the lightening everywhere see the lightening dimmer.
Make no dinner in the morning, make it in the evening,
see the same and see it there, see it in the morning.
See the time when there is that, see it in the morning,
see it all and say the hat, say it every morning,
say no more and undertake what is so ridiculous
that there is no time to say that and any how what is
the abuse of an intention, why should there be etiquette,
why is there every lightening, why if the season is the same
is there summer, when is there more night than in winter.

Return after the garden, remain after the tea,
single out a timepiece, so hatly and so true
there is neither more to do. All the time is the past
and piece meal is that meal and a little chicken is a liver,
and solitude is enough. A little jerk is no occasion,
so supremely is there a category.

Very good the place is rough, the bed is silver
and the sheets are there, the little slipper is not organized,
the pleasure is obtained and actually there is a garden.
In union there is withering. In sunlight there is breakfast.

A turn of the table does not mean that cups are there,
it means that there is no loneliness and it means that the copy
is not extreme when there is a frame. It does not mean
any little thing.

A clatter registered has a calming center.
That is the outlasting of a sight of all.
If it is possible that there is the result
then certainly no one would think so. Every one does.
There is no sense in such a history. There is no sense at all.
Not a bit of broom has the window open, not a bit.

No borrowing or lending and pearls are sweet.
They are the same as a little chain, they have the color early,
they see the time and they need no wine
and they secure the distaste of pink pepper.

Choose running anyway, that is to say that rolling
has more distinction, choose a feather boa and range all
the plumes and a yellow one is sweeter.

Bake a table, the rest is empty, see the plate first,
the first is distributed, see the arrangement
the arrangement is in the curling Christmas.

Bet more than sugar, copy no more principally,
restrict more decoration, repeat the needle. There is made.

So to see and so to go and so to turn the list around,
so to go and so there is the practice of Nileing.
Plainer sheets have simple stripes.

A target is by way of marks. The youngest is shaken.
The pleasure is rested.

The length is the laughing dater, there is no challenge
in mingling later. There is none, the rate is facing a lender.

All along and in the mind there is a plate and there is meal.
There is the rate that makes no more. The stairs are not stumbling.