Verse > Anthologies > Harriet Monroe, ed. > Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, 1912–22
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Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936).  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse.  1912–22.
 
1777
By Amy Lowell
 
I—THE TRUMPET-VINE ARBOR

THE THROATS of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open,
And the clangor of brass beats against the hot sunlight.
They bray and blare at the burning sky.
Red! Red! Coarse notes of red,
Trumpeted at the blue sky.        5
In long streaks of sound, molten metal,
The vine declares itself.
Clang!—from its red and yellow trumpets;
Clang!—from its long, nasal trumpets,
Splitting the sunlight into ribbons, tattered and shot with noise.        10
 
  I sit in the cool arbor, in a green and gold twilight.
It is very still, for I cannot hear the trumpets,
I only know that they are red and open,
And that the sun above the arbor shakes with heat.
My quill is newly mended,        15
And makes fine-drawn lines with its point.
Down the long white paper it makes little lines,
Just lines—up—down—criss-cross.
My heart is strained out at the pin-point of my quill;
It is thin and writhing like the marks of the pen.        20
My hand marches to a squeaky tune,
It marches down the paper to a squealing of fifes.
My pen and the trumpet-flowers,
And Washington’s armies away over the smoke-tree to the southwest.
“Yankee Doodle”, my darling! It is you against the British,        25
Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George.
What have you got in your hat? Not a feather, I wager.
Just a hay-straw, for it is the harvest you are fighting for.
Hay in your hat, and the whites of their eyes for a target!
Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from the housetop,        30
Through Father’s spy-glass,
The red city, and the blue, bright water,
And puffs of smoke which you made.
Twenty miles away,
Round by Cambridge, or over the Neck,        35
But the smoke was white—white!
To-day the trumpet-flowers are red—red—
And I cannot see you fighting;
But old Mr. Dimond has fled to Canada,
And Myra sings “Yankee Doodle” at her milking.        40
 
  The red throats of the trumpets bray and clang in the sunshine,
And the smoke-tree puffs dun blossoms into the blue air.
 
II—THE CITY OF FALLING LEAVES

  Leaves fall,
Brown leaves,
Yellow leaves streaked with brown.        45
They fall,
Flutter,
Fall again.
The brown leaves,
And the streaked yellow leaves,        50
Loosen on their branches
And drift slowly downwards.
One,
One, two, three,
One, two, five.        55
All Venice is a falling of autumn leaves—
Brown,
And yellow streaked with brown.
 
  “That sonnet, Abate,
Beautiful,        60
I am quite exhausted by it.
Your phrases turn about my heart,
And stifle me to swooning.
Open the window, I beg.
Lord! What a strumming of fiddles and mandolins!        65
’Tis really a shame to stop indoors.
Call my maid, or I will make you lace me yourself.
Fie, how hot it is, not a breath of air!
See how straight the leaves are falling.
Marianna, I will have the yellow satin caught up with silver fringe,        70
It peeps out delightfully from under a mantle.
Am I well painted to-day, caro Abate mio?
You will be proud of me at the Ridotto, hey?
Proud of being cavaliere servente to such a lady?”
“Can you doubt it, bellissima Contessa?        75
A pinch more rouge on the right cheek,
And Venus herself shines less …”
“You bore me, Abate,
I vow I must change you!
A letter, Achmet?        80
Run and look out of the window, Abate.
I will read my letter in peace.”
 
  The little black slave with the yellow satin turban
Gazes at his mistress with strained eyes.
His yellow turban and black skin        85
Are gorgeous—barbaric.
The yellow satin dress with its silver flashings
Lies on a chair,
Beside a black mantle and a black mask.
Yellow and black,        90
Gorgeous—barbaric.
The lady reads her letter,
And the leaves drift slowly
Past the long windows.
“How silly you look, my dear Abate,        95
With that great brown leaf in your wig.
Pluck it off, I beg you,
Or I shall die of laughing.”
 
  A yellow wall,
Aflare in the sunlight,        100
Chequered with shadows—
Shadows of vine-leaves,
Shadows of masks.
Masks coming, printing themselves for an instant,
Then passing on,        105
More masks always replacing them.
Masks with tricorns and rapiers sticking out behind
Pursuing masks with veils and high heels,
The sunlight shining under their insteps.
One,        110
One, two,
One, two, three,
There is a thronging of shadows on the hot wall,
Filigreed at the top with moving leaves.
Yellow sunlight and black shadows,        115
Yellow and black,
Gorgeous—barbaric.
Two masks stand together,
And the shadow of a leaf falls through them,
Marking the wall where they are not.        120
From hat-tip to shoulder-tip,
From elbow to sword-hilt,
The leaf falls.
The shadows mingle,
Blur together,        125
Slide along the wall and disappear.
 
  Gold of mosaics and candles,
And night-blackness lurking in the ceiling beams.
Saint Mark’s glitters with flames and reflections.
A cloak brushes aside,        130
And the yellow of satin
Licks out over the colored inlays of the pavement.
Under the gold crucifixes
There is a meeting of hands
Reaching from black mantles.        135
Sighing embraces, bold investigations,
Hide in confessionals,
Sheltered by the shuffling of feet.
Gorgeous—barbaric
In its mail of jewels and gold,        140
Saint Mark’s looks down at the swarm of black masks;
And outside in the palace gardens brown leaves fall,
Flutter,
Fall.
Brown,        145
And yellow streaked with brown.
 
  Blue-black the sky over Venice,
With a pricking of yellow stars.
There is no moon,
And the waves push darkly against the prow        150
Of the gondola,
Coming from Malamocco
And streaming toward Venice.
It is black under the gondola hood,
But the yellow of a satin dress        155
Glares out like the eye of a watching tiger.
Yellow compassed about with darkness,
Yellow and black,
Gorgeous—barbaric.
The boatman sings,        160
It is Tasso that he sings;
The lovers seek each other beneath their mantles,
And the gondola drifts over the lagoon, aslant to the coming dawn.
But at Malamocco in front,
In Venice behind,        165
Fall the leaves,
Brown,
And yellow streaked with brown.
They fall,
Flutter,        170
Fall.
 
 
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