Eight Harvard Poets Part 2

_Love, ah-h! love me, love me!_ _If you will do this, I can buy_ _A fringed silk scarf of yellow,_ _A high comb carved of tortoise;_ _Then we will dance in the Plaza._

She was alone that night.

He had broken into her courtyard.

Above the gurgling gutters he heard-- surely-- a door unchained?

The pa.s.sage was black; but he risked it-- death in the darkness-- or her hot arms--(_love--love me ah-h-h!_)

"A good old tune," she murmured --and I found we were dancing.

DECORATION

A little pagan child-G.o.d plays Beyond the far horizon haze, And underneath the twilight trees He blows a bubble to the breeze, Which is borne upward in the night And makes the heavens shine with light.

But soon it sinks to earth again, And, hitting hills, it bursts! And then With foam the skies are splashed and sprayed; And that's how all the stars are made.

THRENODY

She is lain with high things and with low.

She lies With shut eyes, Rocked in the eternal flow Of silence evermore.

Desperately immortal, she; She stands With wide hands Dim through the veil of eternity, Behind the supreme door.

J. R. DOS Pa.s.sOS

THE BRIDGE

The lonely bridge cuts dark across the marsh Whose long pools glow with the light Of a flaring summer sunset.

At this end limp bushes overhang, Palely reflected in the amber-colored water; Among them a constant banjo-tw.a.n.ging of frogs, And shrilling of toads and of insects Rises and falls in chorus rhythmic and stirring.

Dark, with crumbling railing and planks, The bridge leads into the sunset.

Across it many lonely figures, Their eyes a-flare with the sunset, Their faces glowing with its colors, Tramp past me through the evening.

I am tired of sitting quiet Among the bushes of the sh.o.r.e, While the dark bridge stretches onward, And the long pools gleam with light; I am tired of the shrilling of insects And the croaking of frogs in the rushes, For the wild rice in the marsh-pools Waves its beckoning streamers in the wind, And the red sky-glory fades.

SALVATION ARMY

A drum pounds out the hymn, Loud with gaudy angels, tinsel cherubim, To drown the fanfare of the street, And with exultant lilting beat, To mingle the endless rumble of carts, The sc.r.a.pe of feet, the noise of marts And dinning market stalls, where women shout Their wares, and meat hangs out-- Grotesque, distorted by the gas flare's light-- Into one sacred rhythm for the Devil's spite.

A woman's thin, raucous voice Carries the tune, bids men rejoice, Bathe in G.o.d's mercy, Draw near and learn salvation, see With their own eyes the mystery.

Cymbals, at the hands of a tired girl, Slim wisp amid the swirl Of crowded streets, take up the tune, Monotonously importune.

Faces are wan in the arc-light's livid glare; A wind gust carries the band's flare Of song, in noisy eddies echoing, Round lonely black street-corners,

Till, with distance dimming, It fades away, Among the silent, dark array Of city houses where no soul stirs.

The crowd thins, the players are alone; In their faith's raucous monotone, Loud with gaudy angels, tinsel cherubim, A drum pounds out the hymn.

INCARNATION

Incessantly the long rain falls, Slanting on black walls, Which glisten gold where a street lamp shines.

In a shop-window, spangled in long lines, By rain-drops all a-glow, An Italian woman's face Flames into my soul as I go Hastily by in the turbulent darkness;-- An oval olive face, With the sweetly sullen grace Of the Virgin when first she sees, Amid her garden's silver lilies, The white-robed angel gleam, And softly, as by a sultry dream, Feels all her soul subdued unto the fire And radiance of her ecstasy.

So in some picture, on which as on a lyre, An old Italian painter laboriously has played His soul away, his love, all his desire For fragrant things afar from earth, Shines the Madonna, as with a veil overlaid By incense-smoke and dust age-old, At whose feet, in time of dearth Or need, a myriad men have laid Their sorrows and arisen bold.

Incessantly the long rain falls, Slanting on black walls.

But through the dark interminable streets, Along pavements where rain beats Its sharp tattoo, and gas-lamps shine, Greenish gold in the solitude, The vision flames through my mood Of that Italian woman's face, Through the dripping window-pane.

MEMORY

Between rounded hills, White with patches of buckwheat, whose fragrance fills The little breeze that makes the birch-leaves quiver, Beside a rollicking swift river, Light green in the deeps,-- Like your eyes in sunshine,-- Winds the ca.n.a.l, Lazy and brown as a water-snake, Full of dazzle and sheen where the breeze sweeps The water with gossamer garments, that shake The reeds standing sentinel, And the marginal line Of birches and willows.

Our little steamer pulls its way With jingle of bells and panting throb Of old engines.

In stiff array The water-reeds wave, And solemnly sway To the wash and swell of our pa.s.sing.

Among the reeds the ripples sob, And die away, 'Till the ca.n.a.l is still again, save For a kingfisher's flashing Across the noon shimmer.

I stood beside you in the bow, Watched the sunlight lose itself among your hair, That the breeze tugged at.

Bright as the shattered sun-rays, where the prow Cut the still water, The warm light caught and tangled there, Red gold amid your hair.

You were very slim in your blue serge dress....

We talked of meaningless things, education, Agreed that unless, Something were changed disaster would come to the nation.

You smiled when I pointed where A group of birches shivered in the green wood-shadow, Up to their knees in water, white and fair As dryads bathing.

A row Of flat white houses and a wharf Glided in sight.