Part 8 (1/2)
ANY CITY
Into the staring street She goes on her nightly round, With weary and tireless feet Over the wretched ground.
A thing that man never spurns, A thing that all men despise; Into her soul there burns The street with its pitiless eyes.
She needs no charm or wile, She carries no beauty or power, But a tawdry and casual smile For a tawdry and casual hour.
The street with its pitiless eyes Follows wherever she lurks, But she is hardened and wise-- She rattles her bracelets and smirks...
She goes with her sordid array, Luring, without a lure; She is man's hunger and prey-- His l.u.s.t and its hideous cure.
All that she knows are the lies, The evil, the squalor, the scars; The street with its pitiless eyes, The night with its pitiless stars.
LANDSCAPES
(_For Clement R. Wood_)
The rain was over, and the brilliant air Made every little blade of gra.s.s appear Vivid and startling--everything was there With sharpened outlines, eloquently clear, As though one saw it in a crystal sphere.
The rusty sumac with its struggling spires; The golden-rod with all its million fires; (A million torches swinging in the wind) A single poplar, marvellously thinned, Half like a naked boy, half like a sword; Clouds, like the haughty banners of the Lord; A group of pansies with their shrewish faces, Little old ladies cackling over laces; The quaint, unhurried road that curved so well; The prim petunias with their rich, rank smell; The lettuce-birds, the creepers in the field-- How bountifully were they all revealed!
How arrogantly each one seemed to thrive-- So frank and strong, so radiantly alive!
And over all the morning-minded earth There seemed to spread a sharp and kindling mirth, Piercing the stubborn stones until I saw The toad face heaven without shame or awe, The ant confront the stars, and every weed Grow proud as though it bore a royal seed; While all the things that die and decompose Sent forth their bloom as richly as the rose...
Oh, what a liberal power that made them thrive And keep the very dirt that died, alive.
And now I saw the slender willow-tree No longer calm or drooping listlessly, Letting its languid branches sway and fall As though it danced in some sad ritual; But rather like a young, athletic girl, Fearless and gay, her hair all out of curl, And flying in the wind--her head thrown back, Her arms flung up, her garments flowing slack, And all her rus.h.i.+ng spirits running over...
What made a sober tree seem such a rover-- Or made the staid and stalwart apple-trees, That stood for years knee-deep in velvet peace, Turn all their fruit to little worlds of flame, And burn the trembling orchard there below.
What lit the heart of every golden-glow-- Oh, why was nothing weary, dull or tame?...
Beauty it was, and keen, compa.s.sionate mirth That drives the vast and energetic earth.
And, with abrupt and visionary eyes, I saw the huddled tenements arise.
Here where the merry clover danced and shone Sprang agonies of iron and of stone; There, where green Silence laughed or stood enthralled, Cheap music blared and evil alleys sprawled.
The roaring avenues, the shrieking mills; Brothels and prisons on those kindly hills-- The menace of these things swept over me; A threatening, unconquerable sea...
A stirring landscape and a generous earth!
Freshening courage and benevolent mirth-- And then the city, like a hideous sore...
_Good G.o.d, and what is all this beauty for?_
TWO FUNERALS
I.
Upon a field of shrieking red A mighty general stormed and fell.
They raised him from the common dead And all the people mourned him well.