Part 5 (2/2)

The city is no place for her-- It is too violent and shrill; Too full of graver things--but still Beneath the throbbing surge and stir, Her spirit lives and moves, until Even the dullest feel the spur Of an awakened will.

Make way then--Life, rejoicing, Calls, with a lyric rout, Till in this mighty voicing The very stones sing out; Till nowhere is a single Sleeping or silent thing, And worlds that meet and mingle Fairly tingle with the Spring.

Make way for Her-- For the fervor of Life, For the pa.s.sions that stir, For the courage of Strife; For the struggles that bring A more vivid day-- Make way for Spring; Make way!

IN A CAB

Rain--and the lights of the city, Blurred by the mist on the pane.

A thing without pa.s.sion or pity-- This is the rain.

It beats on the roof with derision, It howls at the doors of the cab-- Phantoms go by in a vision, Distorted and drab.

Torpor and dreariness greet me; All of the things I abhor Rise to confront and defeat me, As I ride to your door...

At last you have come; you have banished The gloom of each rain-haunted street-- The tawdry surroundings have vanished; The evening is sweet.

Now the whole city is dreamlike; The rain plays the lightest of tunes; The lamps through the mist make it seem like A city of moons.

No longer my fancies run riot; I hold the most magic of charms-- You smile at me, warm and unquiet, Here in my arms.

I do not wonder or witness Whether it rains or is fair; I only can think of your sweetness, And the scent of your hair.

I am deaf to the clatter and drumming, And life is a thing to ignore...

Alas, my beloved, we are coming Once more to your door!...

You have gone; it is listless and lonely; The evening is empty again; The world is a blank--there is only The desolate rain.

SUMMER NIGHT--BROADWAY

Night is the city's disease.

The streets and the people one sees Glow with a light that is strangely inhuman; A fever that never grows cold.

Heaven completes the disgrace; For now, with her star-pitted face, Night has the leer of a dissolute woman, Cynical, moon-scarred and old.

And I think of the country roads; Of the quiet, sleeping abodes, Where every tree is a silent brother And the hearth is a thing to cling to.

And I sicken and long for it now-- To feel clean winds on my brow, Where Night bends low, like an all-wise mother Looking for children to sing to.

HAUNTED

Between the moss and stone The lonely lilies rise; Wasted and overgrown The tangled garden lies.

Weeds climb about the stoop And clutch the crumbling walls; The drowsy gra.s.ses droop-- The night wind falls.

The place is like a wood; No sign is there to tell Where rose and iris stood That once she loved so well.

Where phlox and asters grew, A leafless thornbush stands, And shrubs that never knew Her tender hands...

Over the broken fence The moonbeams trail their shrouds; Their tattered cerements Cling to the gauzy clouds, In ribbons frayed and thin-- And startled by the light, Silence shrinks deeper in The depths of night.

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