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In the Strand
Desperately and disdainfully showed his wares…. | |
| Stupid things … laces, studs…. | |
| I bought … his look … and … this verse. | |
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Introduction
Still the void turns | |
| And creaks, | 5 |
| And spatters me | |
| With spume of gaunt fatuity … | |
| And again turns | |
| Unceasingly | |
| Till the quiet burns. | 10 |
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| The night is full, with laughter in its wings, | |
| And faint wan faces ouched in yearning sky, | |
| Laughter that weals the face of night | |
| And stings. The anguished soul drifts by. | |
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| I will not go … | 15 |
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| Still the void turns … | |
| And sickening thuds … | |
| Creaking. | |
| Still the quiet burns … | |
| With flame that floods | 20 |
| The secret inner sky, | |
| And yearns to the sound | |
| And the laughter. | |
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| I am called, | |
| Hesitant. | 25 |
| Still the void turns. | |
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In the bus
Hum of the town! | |
| Splashes of faces | |
| In garish places | |
| Drive ever down. | 30 |
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In the park
The gaunt trees grope to the night … | |
| The distant magic … | |
| They touch the sky. | |
| The faces linger to the light, | |
| And endlessly drift by, | 35 |
| With shuffle of far feet, | |
| Like leaves that strike | |
| And flicker on the way | |
| With little ripples of dry sound. | |
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The band
Noise of the band … and the wind asleep. | 40 |
| Over the wind I mount on wings, | |
| And swing and gleam and sheer and float. | |
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| How chill it is grown .. and how remote the faces … | |
| And thin and very faint … and the wind sings … | |
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Interlude
Shop girl, poor clerk— | 45 |
| Ephemerons .. wing your swift way. | |
| A little love .. it will not mark | |
| The soul unused to day. | |
| So cold, so far away you seem, | |
| Shop girl, poor clerk. | 50 |
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| I am the dreamer… Are you the dream? | |
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| How the noise mocks me .. and the pain! | |
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| And they laugh about me … while the trees unheard … | |
| Though not to one or three … | |
| The water calls in vain. | 55 |
| For she is much more amorous then, | |
| And will not prize her sweets too dear … | |
| For after all we are poor men | |
| And love we may not know; | |
| Though here … | 60 |
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Hyde Park Corner
Stress of the crowd … and the whole of it mute … | |
| Tunics that thrill in the light till you look at his face | |
| With a rush of hate .. and hate for the grace | |
| Of the slavey wooing the brute. | |
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| Stress of the crowd! | 65 |
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Picture Palace
Breathless… The giggles cease … | |
| The ruddled alcove … | |
| The clicking of the reel … peace. | |
| Flicker … light. | |
| We thrill to the rush and the clatter … | 70 |
| And spatter the night with our souls … | |
| And steal the soul of the night. | |
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| The girl at the box was very sweet … | |
| Manicured nails, and massaged smile, and teeth | |
| Resplendent … Flicker … light. | 75 |
| The rush and the clatter, | |
| With dust of fatuity | |
| Spattered | |
| Out of the void. | |
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| Always the street and the giggle of girls, | 80 |
| Women from where? | |
| God, but the night must be full of them … | |
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Anarchist Club
Quiet at last … she here … | |
| The babble of hot voices strangely soothes … | |
| The coffee is black … Avernus’ waters where | 85 |
| The soul’s disquiets flare, | |
| And she… Her face is like half-old ivory, | |
| A something past in its whiteness, | |
| With cheeks a-hollow… Smoking ever she talks | |
| And disdains me … quite … | 90 |
| This is not the place … | |
| Later, perhaps, she’ll not deny me. | |
| And now and then some one will say, | |
| “A bas!”… “Saboter!” | |
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| How came we here? | 95 |
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Café
The sybaritic waiter brings us drink … | |
| Thick lips and mottled face … | |
| And gazes at her. | |
| I think his eyes swoon back | |
| To ancient arcadies | 100 |
| In her black, secret eyes. | |
| She is the beauty at the feast … | |
| My friends and their friends flock, | |
| With words well greased. | |
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| Oh! but the babble wearies me | 105 |
| And the lights … | |
| And rococo … | |
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Liqueur
One lotus bud swings to the harbor of my soul | |
| And bursts … | |
| And each glad petal … thirsts | 110 |
| Unto all heaven … Far | |
| Insinuating roots … | |
| Wondrous fruits | |
| Creating, becoming of all things, | |
| And God singing! | 115 |
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| “My moon, my almond-eyed delight goes from me | |
| And I am old … | |
| I am far older than she is … | |
| And now she laughs at my gray hairs … | |
| Yet may I not stretch out to chasten her lest she rebel. | 120 |
| I will use songs and fair words … | |
| To bring her to me. | |
| Then she shall languish forever | |
| In the prison of my infinite mercy.” | |
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| Night, speak me soft— | 125 |
| I have sipped but the rim of “her” cup … | |
| Horror of vastness dripped | |
| From star to star— | |
| And even you | |
| Could not help me. | 130 |
| I am afraid. | |
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