The Lamp of Life

Always we are following a light, Always the light recedes; with groping hands We stretch toward this glory, while the lands We journey through are hidden from our sight Dim and mysterious, folded deep

The Blue Scarf

Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered Over with silver, brocaded In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes, It lies there, Warm from a woman’s soft shoulders, and my

The Cross-Roads

A bullet through his heart at dawn. On The table a letter signed With a woman’s name. A wind that goes howling round the House, And weeping as in shame. Cold November dawn peeping

The Matrix

Goaded and harassed in the factory That tears our life up into bits of days Ticked off upon a clock which never stays, Shredding our portion of Eternity, We break away at last, and

Before Dawn

Life! Austere arbiter of each man’s fate, By whom he learns that Nature’s steadfast laws Are as decrees immutable; O pause Your even forward march! Not yet too late Teach me the needed lesson,

The End

Throughout the echoing chambers of my brain I hear your words in mournful cadence toll Like some slow passing-bell which warns the soul Of sundering darkness. Unrelenting, fain To batter down resistance, fall again

Stravinsky's Three Pieces

First Movement Thin-voiced, nasal pipes Drawing sound out and out Until it is a screeching thread, Sharp and cutting, sharp and cutting, It hurts. Whee-e-e! Bump! Bump! Tong-ti-bump! There are drums here, Banging, And

The Taxi

When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum. I call out for you against the jutted stars And shout into the ridges of the wind. Streets coming fast,

The Fruit Shop

Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gown, High-waisted, girdled with bright blue; A straw poke bonnet which hid the frown She pluckered her little brows into As she picked her dainty passage through The dusty street.

The Basket

I The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies White and unspotted, In the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness Sweep into The corners, and keep rolling through

Spring Day

Bath The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is A smell of tulips and narcissus In the air. The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and Bores through the water In the

Francis II, King of Naples

Written after reading Trevelyan’s “Garibaldi And the making of Italy” Poor foolish monarch, vacillating, vain, Decaying victim of a race of kings, Swift Destiny shook out her purple wings And caught him in their

Vintage

I will mix me a drink of stars, Large stars with polychrome needles, Small stars jetting maroon and crimson, Cool, quiet, green stars. I will tear them out of the sky, And squeeze them

Storm-Racked

How should I sing when buffeting salt waves And stung with bitter surges, in whose might I toss, a cockleshell? The dreadful night Marshals its undefeated dark and raves In brutal madness, reeling over

An Opera House

Within the gold square of the proscenium arch, A curtain of orange velvet hangs in stiff folds, Its tassels jarring slightly when someone crosses the stage behind. Gold carving edges the balconies, Rims the
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