Part 3

You must have noticed, on a Sunday night, The line of husbands, forming on the right, ... A bent old fogey, and a spatted fop Are rubbing shoulders in the crowded shop Where lurid signs proclaim a pale green tea Or shriek in praise of chicken fricassee.

Furtively they take their places in line And meditate the where-withall to dine ... Then whisper it quite deprecatingly, And steal away as humble as can be!

LISTENING IN.

(Recess in a College Corridor)

Footsteps paced down the hall--slow, meditative footsteps, with long intervals between them. Then there was a swish of skirts, and little pattering taps on the hard marble. Then both footsteps stopped, and I heard a high treble tittering, and a deep long-drawn out, but kindly roar. There was a clatter as though books had fallen on the floor--another titter, and rather a bored basso sigh. A bell rang. The pattering and swishing recommenced and faded out of earshot. The steady, determined strides drew nearer and nearer--and by that time the second bell had rung--and the door was slowly opened.

MT. RIGA ROAD

If I could draw-- The country lies A beacon to my pointed pen, Enticing me to sketch again, Or paint the colored twilight skies.

If I could play-- I’d harmonize The babbling brooks in mossy glen Or sing the whispered words of men Or wordless songs in misty eyes.

I wish that God had given to me Expression that real artists show ... The power to understand and see, Uplifted by the will to know.

Instead, I write my paltry stint, Which usually isn’t fit to print.

RAIN

Here’s the pool, close to the lake Where the humming rainbow flies Seek their prey with myriad eyes, Where the maple, touched with red, Bends across the dusty pool, Bathing in its welcome cool, Sunspots break the veil of leaves Like diluted drops of gold, Cloud the pool with dust-like mold.

Now the sunspots fade away. Buzzing flies hum louder still, Tense the air hangs damp and chill, And the maple’s glittering leaves Turn their silver-frosted backs To the wind. A pine-tree cracks. On its breast the first rain falls. Drops like pebbles sharply pelt, Widen to a ring, and melt.

GROWING PAINS

When I was a rosy, wide-eyed child And the world was new to me I tried to explore it with searching eyes That knew no secrecy. And I came one day, in my wanderings, On a curtain of green and gold With the deepest colors reflected in Each mysterious fold. And I tried to break through it, and tried to go ’round To pluck at the colors that shone, But as I reached toward it, it vanished away. And I cried in the forest, alone.

Seven years passed, e’er I saw it again, All proud in my new-found teens ... But I passed by the gate with a haughty glance, And I scoffed at its beckoning greens.

Seven years more, and I find it again, In my own private fairy wood. Its shimmering colors, and sun-flecked hues Call me, as naught else could.

The gates are translucent. There, tinted with rose, Is the sapphire blue of a cloudless day ... And I know there are reaped the harvests of love, And I know there the children of happiness play.

But I know that for me the gate is shut ... And I feel that I trespass on hallowed ground, So I fix my eyes on the stones below, And I follow the lone path, homeward bound.

ADOLESCENCE

Childlike still, we gaze at fleeting fairy thoughts, Childlike still, we cast pale shadows in the air-- Civilized imaginations--weakling sparks That we’ve folded fast in words--and buried there.

Look: A school of doves on silver-frosted wings Hold the sunshine for a moment as they fly, Toss a vagrant shaft of sunbeams in the air As they float across a shining turquoise sky.

For a moment there’s the glitter of their wings ... Just a moment ... then the sunbeam melts away And the happy brightness of the turquoise sky Has faded, like their silver wings, to grey.

TO--

Glorious love, if the passion were thine, To thee I would open my heart and myself; Yours is the spirit to whom I’d resign, Yours are the arms I would rest in, in sleep.

Yours is the face I would look to for help, Yours are the hopes that would buoy me, until After our labors had won, or had failed, Yours are the thoughts that would guide me on still.

FRAGMENT

Glorious Virgin, thine the light ... The spark-fire of maternal love ... Of thine own self, hast thou made A Living God, thy Monument.

TO MARIE

Such a dainty little miss Is Marie, Whom I love to pet and kiss ... Sweet Marie! Auburn hair in sunny wave, Freckled face, now sad, now grave ... Would you teach me to behave ... Dear Marie?

You’ve culled learning from deep books Fair Marie, A Phi Beta ... and such looks! Oh Marie! That you set my heart a-flutter, Not the wise words that you utter ... It’s your charm that makes me stutter ... My Marie!

But though lyrics I indite you, Fair Marie, Ardent love letters I write you, Still Marie, You prefer to let me pine, dear, Lonely hours have been mine, dear. Oh your art is superfine, dear, Dear Marie!

But I never give up hope, Of Marie, Liberally I hand soft soap To Marie ... For I know when I grow older, And my beaux affairs grow bolder ... By her tactics, I’ll be colder Than Marie!

FREUDIANISMS

Then the fish all turn into girls, and the shimmery tale of the goldfish-in-chief changes into dance slippers. Soon her voice begins to call to you. It grows louder and louder. At last you realized that she is saying--

“Eight o’clock--time to get up!”

You heave a sleepy sigh and look at the clock. It says “eight o’clock” but it is probably fast. You turn over and try to remember that dream about goldfish. Or was it girls? Girls or goldfish? Goldfish or girls? They both begin with “g”. Queer, “g.” Stands for “goloshes” and “grapes” and “gloves” and--

“Ten minutes past eight.”

“All right,” you drone dutifully. (But you know it isn’t all right).

You turn on your back and stare at the ceiling. There is no use in getting up yet. You would spend so much time just dressing and undressing. Think of the hours people spend in clothing themselves. If all those minutes were laid end to end they would probably reach from their elbows to--

And then the door bell rings, and someone says something about mail.

Mail!

That’s different.

In a minute you are up and rushing into the hall-way.

“Mail!”

THE OLD MAN SPEAKS

I dare not come to you with virile phrase To tell you to give heed to what I say: To live your life in age-instructed way, To light your dawn with sunset’s fading rays.

I dare not wish to live again my days. I, too, was careless when birds sang in May, I loved to wander on the primrose way, Untaught, I crashed through life’s conflicting maze.

Reverance, sanctity, and holy awe, Your body’s kingdom, and your soul the king. These are the messages of God I bring, To keep your holiness without a flaw.

God gave to you the priceless gift of youth, And I, unheeded, offer you mere truth.

BALLADE FOR MORALISTS

Sing me a lilting, laughing song, Some spritely, springtime roundelay, That’s not too burdensome or long ... That hasn’t got too much to say. O sing of goblin, elf or fay, And deck your verse with imagery Just this remember: Make it gay ... O poet, do not preach to me!

Weave me weird tales of old Hong Kong, Of China, or of far Cathay, With pig-tailed heroes, called Hoo Chong Who struggle in a tyrant’s sway. Be sure the setting of your lay (If it should end unpleasantly) Be very, very far away ... O poet, do not preach to me!

If to some antique, classic wrong Poetic tribute you would pay ... Resound some martyr’s funeral gong ... Awake the tears of yesterday ... I am not one to bid you nay, But this I beg you earnestly Don’t tack a moral to your lay ... O poet, do not preach to me!

L’envoi

I only hope some poet may Read this, and act accordingly, Not tear into bits, and say: “O poet, do not preach to me!”

HEAVEN, AT LAST

I staggered up the last step of the golden stairs and stood puffing and gasping. St. Peter came over to me and flapped his wings in my face. I noticed that the wings were all lettered--A.B.C.D.--I didn’t look further.

“Your admittance ticket,” he growled, and gloatingly fingered his keys. The largest was square and shiny--a Phi Beta Kappa Key.

I pulled a crumpled sheet of 8-¹⁄₂×11 paper from my pocket. St. Peter took it, slowly looked at it upside down, then sideways, then right side up.

“Un-huh,” said St. Peter at last, with celestial vagueness, “Un-huh,” he repeated wisely.

“May I ...” I whispered.

St. Peter turned around slowly, showing me a great expanse of wing.

“Close your eyes,” he said, “and pull out a feather, and while you are about it, take one for each of your little friends.”

“I can’t see which one to choose, if I close my eyes,” I objected most knowingly.

“It doesn’t make any difference which one you choose,” said St. Peter, “I only give them out as souvenirs. A feather doesn’t really help you to fly. It just gives you confidence. The rest is up to you.”

THE FUTURE

Far in the depths of the dark green sea A forest of scrawny weeds Imprisons a giant and holds him fast, Twine themselves round his knotted hand And chain him down to their sunless land Where the waves rush raging past.

His face is hard with deep’ning lines, And his eyes are glazed with slime, Yet, deep in his heart there grows a hope That he will be freed by time.

He is the God of Things to Be, Chained to the floor of the thoughtless sea.

Transcriber’s note

Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized where appropriate.

Page 9: “rogueishly uses them” “roguishly uses them”