LOUIS GOLDINGPLOUGHMAN AT THE PLOUGHHe behindthe straight plough standsStalwart, firm shafts in firm hands.Naught he cares for wars and naughtFor the fierce disease of thought.Only for the winds, the sheerNaked impulse of the year,Only for the soil, which staresClean into God’s face, he cares.In the stark might of his deedThere is more than art or creed;In his wrist more strength is hidThan the monstrous Pyramid;Stauncher than stern EverestBe the muscles of his breast;Not the Atlantic sweeps a floodPotent as the ploughman’s blood.He, his horse, his ploughshare, theseAre the only verities.Dawn to dusk with God he stands,The Earth poised on his broad hands.PORTRAIT OF AN ARTISTI havebeen given eyesWhich are neither foolish nor wise,Seeing through joy or painBeauty alone remain.I have been given an earWhich catches nothing clear,But only along the dayA song stealing away.My feet and hands never couldDo anything evil or good:Instead of these things,A swift mouth that sings.SHEPHERD SINGING RAGTIME(For F. V. Branford)The shepherdsings:’Way down in Dixie,Way down in Dixie,Where the hens are dog-gone glad to lay....’With shaded eyes he stands to lookAcross the hills where the clouds swoon,He singing, leans upon his crook,He sings, he sings no more.The wind is muffled in the tangled hairOf sheep that drift along the noon.The mild sheep stareWith amber eyes about the pearl-flecked June.Two skylarks soarWith singing flameInto the sun whence first they came.All else is only grasshoppersOr a brown wing the shepherd stirs,Who, like a slow tree moving, goesWhere the pale tide of sheep-drift flows.See! the sun smitesWith molten lightsThe turned wing of a gull that glowsAslant the violet, the profoundDome of the mid-June heights.Alas! again the grasshoppers,The birds, the slumber-winging bees,Alas! again for those and theseDemure things drowned;Drowned in vain raucous words men madeWhere no lark rose with swift and sweetAscent and where no dim sheep strayedAbout the stone immensities,Where no sheep strayed and where no beesProbed any flowers nor swung a bladeOf grass with pollened feet.He sings:‘In Dixie,Way down in Dixie,Where the hens are dog-gone glad to layScrambled eggs in the new-mown hay....’The herring-gulls with peevish criesRebuke the man who sings vain words;His sheep-dog growls a low complaint,Then turns to chasing butterflies.But when the indifferent singing-birdsFrom midmost down to dimmest shoreInnumerably confirm their songs,And grasshoppers make summer rhymeAnd solemn bees in the wild thymeClash cymbals and beat gongs,The shepherd’s words once more are faint,Once more the alien song is thinnedUpon the long course of the wind,He sings, he sings no more.Ah now the dear monotoniesOf bells that jangle on the sheepTo the low limit of the hills!Till the blue cup of music spillsInto the boughs of lowland trees;Till thence the lowland singings creepInto the dreamful shepherd’s head,Creep drowsily through his blood;The young thrush fluting all he knows,The ring dove moaning his false woes,Almost the rabbit’s tiny tread,The last unfolding bud.But now,Now a cool word spreads out along the sea.Now the day’s violet is cloud-tipped with gold.Now dusk most silentlyFills the hushed day with other wings than birds’.Now where on foam-crest waves the seagulls rock,To their cliff-haven go the seagulls thence.So too the shepherd gathers in his flock,Because birds journey to their dens,Tired sheep to their still fold.A dark first bat swoops low and dipsAbout the shepherd who now singsA song of timeless evenings;For dusk is round him with wide wings,Dusk murmurs on his moving lips.There is not mortal man who knowsFrom whence the shepherd’s song arose:It came a thousand years ago.Once the world’s shepherds woke to leadThe folded sheep that they might feedOn green downs where winds blow.One shepherd sang a golden word.A thousand miles away one heard.One sang it swift, one sang it slow.Two skylarks heard, two skylarks toldAll shepherds this same song of goldOn all downs where winds blow.This is the song that shepherds mustSing till the green downlands be dustAnd tide of sheep-drift no more flow;The song two skylarks told againTo all the sheep and shepherd menOn green downs where winds blow.GHOSTS GATHERINGYou hearno bones click, see no shaken shroud.Though no tombs grin, you feel ghosts gathering. CrowdOn pitiful crowd of small dead singing menTread the sure earth they feebly hymned; againWith fleshless hand seize unswayed grass. They seizeInsensitive flowers which bend not. Through gross treesThey sift. Nothing withstands them. Nothing knowsThem nor the songs they sang, their busy woes.‘Hence from these ingrate things! To the towns!’ they weep,(If ghosts have tears). You think a wrinkled heapOf leaves heaved, or a wing stirred, less than this.Some chance on the midnight cities. Others missThe few faint lights, thin voices. Wretched theseDoomed to beat long the windy vacancies!Some mourn through forlorn towns. They prowl and seek—What seek they? Who knows them? If branches creakAnd leaves flap and slow women ply their trade,Those all are living things, but these are dead,All that they were, dead totally. What fool stillKnows their extinguished songs? They had their fillOf average joys and sorrows. They learned howLove wilts, Death does not wilt. What more left now?But one ghost yet of all these ghosts may findHimself not utterly faded.Through his blindSome old man’s lamp-rays probe the darkness. SickOf his gaunt quest, the ghost halts. The clock’s tickTroubles the silence. Tiredly the ghost scansThe opened book on the table. A flame fans,A weak wan fire floods through his subtle veins.No, no, not wholly forgotten! Loves and painsNot suffered wholly for nothing!(The old man bendsOver the book, makes notes for pious ends,—Some curious futile work twelve men at mostWill read and yawn over.) The dizzy ghost,Like some more ignorant moth circles the light...Not suffered wholly for nothing!... ‘A sweet night!’The old man mumbles.... A warmth is in the air,He smiles, not knowing why. He moves his chairCloser against the table. And sitting bowedLovingly turns the leaves and chants aloud.SILVER-BADGED WAITERPoortrussed-up lad, what piteous guiseCloaks the late splendour of your eyes,Stiffens the fleetness of your faceInto a mask of sleek disgrace,And makes a smooth caricatureOf your taut body’s swift and surePoise, like a proud bird waiting oneMoment ere he taunt the sun;Your body that stood foolish-wiseStormed by the treasons of the skies,Star-like that hung, deliberateAbove the dubieties of Fate,But with an April gesture choseUnutterable and certain woes!And now you stand with discreet charmDropping the napkin round your arm,Anticipate your tip while youHear the commercial travellers chew.You shuffle with their soups and beersWho held at heel the howling fears,You whose young limbs were proud to dareChallenge the black hosts of despair!
LOUIS GOLDING
He behindthe straight plough standsStalwart, firm shafts in firm hands.Naught he cares for wars and naughtFor the fierce disease of thought.Only for the winds, the sheerNaked impulse of the year,Only for the soil, which staresClean into God’s face, he cares.In the stark might of his deedThere is more than art or creed;In his wrist more strength is hidThan the monstrous Pyramid;Stauncher than stern EverestBe the muscles of his breast;Not the Atlantic sweeps a floodPotent as the ploughman’s blood.He, his horse, his ploughshare, theseAre the only verities.Dawn to dusk with God he stands,The Earth poised on his broad hands.
He behindthe straight plough standsStalwart, firm shafts in firm hands.Naught he cares for wars and naughtFor the fierce disease of thought.Only for the winds, the sheerNaked impulse of the year,Only for the soil, which staresClean into God’s face, he cares.In the stark might of his deedThere is more than art or creed;In his wrist more strength is hidThan the monstrous Pyramid;Stauncher than stern EverestBe the muscles of his breast;Not the Atlantic sweeps a floodPotent as the ploughman’s blood.He, his horse, his ploughshare, theseAre the only verities.Dawn to dusk with God he stands,The Earth poised on his broad hands.
He behindthe straight plough standsStalwart, firm shafts in firm hands.
Naught he cares for wars and naughtFor the fierce disease of thought.
Only for the winds, the sheerNaked impulse of the year,
Only for the soil, which staresClean into God’s face, he cares.
In the stark might of his deedThere is more than art or creed;
In his wrist more strength is hidThan the monstrous Pyramid;
Stauncher than stern EverestBe the muscles of his breast;
Not the Atlantic sweeps a floodPotent as the ploughman’s blood.
He, his horse, his ploughshare, theseAre the only verities.
Dawn to dusk with God he stands,The Earth poised on his broad hands.
I havebeen given eyesWhich are neither foolish nor wise,Seeing through joy or painBeauty alone remain.I have been given an earWhich catches nothing clear,But only along the dayA song stealing away.My feet and hands never couldDo anything evil or good:Instead of these things,A swift mouth that sings.
I havebeen given eyesWhich are neither foolish nor wise,Seeing through joy or painBeauty alone remain.I have been given an earWhich catches nothing clear,But only along the dayA song stealing away.My feet and hands never couldDo anything evil or good:Instead of these things,A swift mouth that sings.
I havebeen given eyesWhich are neither foolish nor wise,Seeing through joy or painBeauty alone remain.
I have been given an earWhich catches nothing clear,But only along the dayA song stealing away.
My feet and hands never couldDo anything evil or good:Instead of these things,A swift mouth that sings.
The shepherdsings:’Way down in Dixie,Way down in Dixie,Where the hens are dog-gone glad to lay....’With shaded eyes he stands to lookAcross the hills where the clouds swoon,He singing, leans upon his crook,He sings, he sings no more.The wind is muffled in the tangled hairOf sheep that drift along the noon.The mild sheep stareWith amber eyes about the pearl-flecked June.Two skylarks soarWith singing flameInto the sun whence first they came.All else is only grasshoppersOr a brown wing the shepherd stirs,Who, like a slow tree moving, goesWhere the pale tide of sheep-drift flows.See! the sun smitesWith molten lightsThe turned wing of a gull that glowsAslant the violet, the profoundDome of the mid-June heights.Alas! again the grasshoppers,The birds, the slumber-winging bees,Alas! again for those and theseDemure things drowned;Drowned in vain raucous words men madeWhere no lark rose with swift and sweetAscent and where no dim sheep strayedAbout the stone immensities,Where no sheep strayed and where no beesProbed any flowers nor swung a bladeOf grass with pollened feet.He sings:‘In Dixie,Way down in Dixie,Where the hens are dog-gone glad to layScrambled eggs in the new-mown hay....’The herring-gulls with peevish criesRebuke the man who sings vain words;His sheep-dog growls a low complaint,Then turns to chasing butterflies.But when the indifferent singing-birdsFrom midmost down to dimmest shoreInnumerably confirm their songs,And grasshoppers make summer rhymeAnd solemn bees in the wild thymeClash cymbals and beat gongs,The shepherd’s words once more are faint,Once more the alien song is thinnedUpon the long course of the wind,He sings, he sings no more.Ah now the dear monotoniesOf bells that jangle on the sheepTo the low limit of the hills!Till the blue cup of music spillsInto the boughs of lowland trees;Till thence the lowland singings creepInto the dreamful shepherd’s head,Creep drowsily through his blood;The young thrush fluting all he knows,The ring dove moaning his false woes,Almost the rabbit’s tiny tread,The last unfolding bud.But now,Now a cool word spreads out along the sea.Now the day’s violet is cloud-tipped with gold.Now dusk most silentlyFills the hushed day with other wings than birds’.Now where on foam-crest waves the seagulls rock,To their cliff-haven go the seagulls thence.So too the shepherd gathers in his flock,Because birds journey to their dens,Tired sheep to their still fold.A dark first bat swoops low and dipsAbout the shepherd who now singsA song of timeless evenings;For dusk is round him with wide wings,Dusk murmurs on his moving lips.There is not mortal man who knowsFrom whence the shepherd’s song arose:It came a thousand years ago.Once the world’s shepherds woke to leadThe folded sheep that they might feedOn green downs where winds blow.One shepherd sang a golden word.A thousand miles away one heard.One sang it swift, one sang it slow.Two skylarks heard, two skylarks toldAll shepherds this same song of goldOn all downs where winds blow.This is the song that shepherds mustSing till the green downlands be dustAnd tide of sheep-drift no more flow;The song two skylarks told againTo all the sheep and shepherd menOn green downs where winds blow.
The shepherdsings:’Way down in Dixie,Way down in Dixie,Where the hens are dog-gone glad to lay....’With shaded eyes he stands to lookAcross the hills where the clouds swoon,He singing, leans upon his crook,He sings, he sings no more.The wind is muffled in the tangled hairOf sheep that drift along the noon.The mild sheep stareWith amber eyes about the pearl-flecked June.Two skylarks soarWith singing flameInto the sun whence first they came.All else is only grasshoppersOr a brown wing the shepherd stirs,Who, like a slow tree moving, goesWhere the pale tide of sheep-drift flows.See! the sun smitesWith molten lightsThe turned wing of a gull that glowsAslant the violet, the profoundDome of the mid-June heights.Alas! again the grasshoppers,The birds, the slumber-winging bees,Alas! again for those and theseDemure things drowned;Drowned in vain raucous words men madeWhere no lark rose with swift and sweetAscent and where no dim sheep strayedAbout the stone immensities,Where no sheep strayed and where no beesProbed any flowers nor swung a bladeOf grass with pollened feet.He sings:‘In Dixie,Way down in Dixie,Where the hens are dog-gone glad to layScrambled eggs in the new-mown hay....’The herring-gulls with peevish criesRebuke the man who sings vain words;His sheep-dog growls a low complaint,Then turns to chasing butterflies.But when the indifferent singing-birdsFrom midmost down to dimmest shoreInnumerably confirm their songs,And grasshoppers make summer rhymeAnd solemn bees in the wild thymeClash cymbals and beat gongs,The shepherd’s words once more are faint,Once more the alien song is thinnedUpon the long course of the wind,He sings, he sings no more.Ah now the dear monotoniesOf bells that jangle on the sheepTo the low limit of the hills!Till the blue cup of music spillsInto the boughs of lowland trees;Till thence the lowland singings creepInto the dreamful shepherd’s head,Creep drowsily through his blood;The young thrush fluting all he knows,The ring dove moaning his false woes,Almost the rabbit’s tiny tread,The last unfolding bud.But now,Now a cool word spreads out along the sea.Now the day’s violet is cloud-tipped with gold.Now dusk most silentlyFills the hushed day with other wings than birds’.Now where on foam-crest waves the seagulls rock,To their cliff-haven go the seagulls thence.So too the shepherd gathers in his flock,Because birds journey to their dens,Tired sheep to their still fold.A dark first bat swoops low and dipsAbout the shepherd who now singsA song of timeless evenings;For dusk is round him with wide wings,Dusk murmurs on his moving lips.There is not mortal man who knowsFrom whence the shepherd’s song arose:It came a thousand years ago.Once the world’s shepherds woke to leadThe folded sheep that they might feedOn green downs where winds blow.One shepherd sang a golden word.A thousand miles away one heard.One sang it swift, one sang it slow.Two skylarks heard, two skylarks toldAll shepherds this same song of goldOn all downs where winds blow.This is the song that shepherds mustSing till the green downlands be dustAnd tide of sheep-drift no more flow;The song two skylarks told againTo all the sheep and shepherd menOn green downs where winds blow.
The shepherdsings:’Way down in Dixie,Way down in Dixie,Where the hens are dog-gone glad to lay....’
With shaded eyes he stands to lookAcross the hills where the clouds swoon,He singing, leans upon his crook,He sings, he sings no more.The wind is muffled in the tangled hairOf sheep that drift along the noon.The mild sheep stareWith amber eyes about the pearl-flecked June.Two skylarks soarWith singing flameInto the sun whence first they came.All else is only grasshoppersOr a brown wing the shepherd stirs,Who, like a slow tree moving, goesWhere the pale tide of sheep-drift flows.
See! the sun smitesWith molten lightsThe turned wing of a gull that glowsAslant the violet, the profoundDome of the mid-June heights.Alas! again the grasshoppers,The birds, the slumber-winging bees,Alas! again for those and theseDemure things drowned;Drowned in vain raucous words men madeWhere no lark rose with swift and sweetAscent and where no dim sheep strayedAbout the stone immensities,Where no sheep strayed and where no beesProbed any flowers nor swung a bladeOf grass with pollened feet.
He sings:‘In Dixie,Way down in Dixie,Where the hens are dog-gone glad to layScrambled eggs in the new-mown hay....’
The herring-gulls with peevish criesRebuke the man who sings vain words;His sheep-dog growls a low complaint,Then turns to chasing butterflies.But when the indifferent singing-birdsFrom midmost down to dimmest shoreInnumerably confirm their songs,And grasshoppers make summer rhymeAnd solemn bees in the wild thymeClash cymbals and beat gongs,The shepherd’s words once more are faint,Once more the alien song is thinnedUpon the long course of the wind,He sings, he sings no more.
Ah now the dear monotoniesOf bells that jangle on the sheepTo the low limit of the hills!Till the blue cup of music spillsInto the boughs of lowland trees;Till thence the lowland singings creepInto the dreamful shepherd’s head,Creep drowsily through his blood;The young thrush fluting all he knows,The ring dove moaning his false woes,Almost the rabbit’s tiny tread,The last unfolding bud.But now,Now a cool word spreads out along the sea.Now the day’s violet is cloud-tipped with gold.Now dusk most silentlyFills the hushed day with other wings than birds’.Now where on foam-crest waves the seagulls rock,To their cliff-haven go the seagulls thence.So too the shepherd gathers in his flock,Because birds journey to their dens,Tired sheep to their still fold.
A dark first bat swoops low and dipsAbout the shepherd who now singsA song of timeless evenings;For dusk is round him with wide wings,Dusk murmurs on his moving lips.
There is not mortal man who knowsFrom whence the shepherd’s song arose:It came a thousand years ago.
Once the world’s shepherds woke to leadThe folded sheep that they might feedOn green downs where winds blow.
One shepherd sang a golden word.A thousand miles away one heard.One sang it swift, one sang it slow.
Two skylarks heard, two skylarks toldAll shepherds this same song of goldOn all downs where winds blow.
This is the song that shepherds mustSing till the green downlands be dustAnd tide of sheep-drift no more flow;
The song two skylarks told againTo all the sheep and shepherd menOn green downs where winds blow.
You hearno bones click, see no shaken shroud.Though no tombs grin, you feel ghosts gathering. CrowdOn pitiful crowd of small dead singing menTread the sure earth they feebly hymned; againWith fleshless hand seize unswayed grass. They seizeInsensitive flowers which bend not. Through gross treesThey sift. Nothing withstands them. Nothing knowsThem nor the songs they sang, their busy woes.‘Hence from these ingrate things! To the towns!’ they weep,(If ghosts have tears). You think a wrinkled heapOf leaves heaved, or a wing stirred, less than this.Some chance on the midnight cities. Others missThe few faint lights, thin voices. Wretched theseDoomed to beat long the windy vacancies!Some mourn through forlorn towns. They prowl and seek—What seek they? Who knows them? If branches creakAnd leaves flap and slow women ply their trade,Those all are living things, but these are dead,All that they were, dead totally. What fool stillKnows their extinguished songs? They had their fillOf average joys and sorrows. They learned howLove wilts, Death does not wilt. What more left now?But one ghost yet of all these ghosts may findHimself not utterly faded.Through his blindSome old man’s lamp-rays probe the darkness. SickOf his gaunt quest, the ghost halts. The clock’s tickTroubles the silence. Tiredly the ghost scansThe opened book on the table. A flame fans,A weak wan fire floods through his subtle veins.No, no, not wholly forgotten! Loves and painsNot suffered wholly for nothing!(The old man bendsOver the book, makes notes for pious ends,—Some curious futile work twelve men at mostWill read and yawn over.) The dizzy ghost,Like some more ignorant moth circles the light...Not suffered wholly for nothing!... ‘A sweet night!’The old man mumbles.... A warmth is in the air,He smiles, not knowing why. He moves his chairCloser against the table. And sitting bowedLovingly turns the leaves and chants aloud.
You hearno bones click, see no shaken shroud.Though no tombs grin, you feel ghosts gathering. CrowdOn pitiful crowd of small dead singing menTread the sure earth they feebly hymned; againWith fleshless hand seize unswayed grass. They seizeInsensitive flowers which bend not. Through gross treesThey sift. Nothing withstands them. Nothing knowsThem nor the songs they sang, their busy woes.‘Hence from these ingrate things! To the towns!’ they weep,(If ghosts have tears). You think a wrinkled heapOf leaves heaved, or a wing stirred, less than this.Some chance on the midnight cities. Others missThe few faint lights, thin voices. Wretched theseDoomed to beat long the windy vacancies!Some mourn through forlorn towns. They prowl and seek—What seek they? Who knows them? If branches creakAnd leaves flap and slow women ply their trade,Those all are living things, but these are dead,All that they were, dead totally. What fool stillKnows their extinguished songs? They had their fillOf average joys and sorrows. They learned howLove wilts, Death does not wilt. What more left now?But one ghost yet of all these ghosts may findHimself not utterly faded.Through his blindSome old man’s lamp-rays probe the darkness. SickOf his gaunt quest, the ghost halts. The clock’s tickTroubles the silence. Tiredly the ghost scansThe opened book on the table. A flame fans,A weak wan fire floods through his subtle veins.No, no, not wholly forgotten! Loves and painsNot suffered wholly for nothing!(The old man bendsOver the book, makes notes for pious ends,—Some curious futile work twelve men at mostWill read and yawn over.) The dizzy ghost,Like some more ignorant moth circles the light...Not suffered wholly for nothing!... ‘A sweet night!’The old man mumbles.... A warmth is in the air,He smiles, not knowing why. He moves his chairCloser against the table. And sitting bowedLovingly turns the leaves and chants aloud.
You hearno bones click, see no shaken shroud.Though no tombs grin, you feel ghosts gathering. Crowd
On pitiful crowd of small dead singing menTread the sure earth they feebly hymned; again
With fleshless hand seize unswayed grass. They seizeInsensitive flowers which bend not. Through gross trees
They sift. Nothing withstands them. Nothing knowsThem nor the songs they sang, their busy woes.
‘Hence from these ingrate things! To the towns!’ they weep,(If ghosts have tears). You think a wrinkled heap
Of leaves heaved, or a wing stirred, less than this.Some chance on the midnight cities. Others miss
The few faint lights, thin voices. Wretched theseDoomed to beat long the windy vacancies!
Some mourn through forlorn towns. They prowl and seek—What seek they? Who knows them? If branches creak
And leaves flap and slow women ply their trade,Those all are living things, but these are dead,
All that they were, dead totally. What fool stillKnows their extinguished songs? They had their fillOf average joys and sorrows. They learned how
Love wilts, Death does not wilt. What more left now?But one ghost yet of all these ghosts may findHimself not utterly faded.Through his blind
Some old man’s lamp-rays probe the darkness. SickOf his gaunt quest, the ghost halts. The clock’s tick
Troubles the silence. Tiredly the ghost scansThe opened book on the table. A flame fans,
A weak wan fire floods through his subtle veins.No, no, not wholly forgotten! Loves and pains
Not suffered wholly for nothing!(The old man bendsOver the book, makes notes for pious ends,
—Some curious futile work twelve men at mostWill read and yawn over.) The dizzy ghost,
Like some more ignorant moth circles the light...Not suffered wholly for nothing!... ‘A sweet night!’
The old man mumbles.... A warmth is in the air,He smiles, not knowing why. He moves his chair
Closer against the table. And sitting bowedLovingly turns the leaves and chants aloud.
Poortrussed-up lad, what piteous guiseCloaks the late splendour of your eyes,Stiffens the fleetness of your faceInto a mask of sleek disgrace,And makes a smooth caricatureOf your taut body’s swift and surePoise, like a proud bird waiting oneMoment ere he taunt the sun;Your body that stood foolish-wiseStormed by the treasons of the skies,Star-like that hung, deliberateAbove the dubieties of Fate,But with an April gesture choseUnutterable and certain woes!And now you stand with discreet charmDropping the napkin round your arm,Anticipate your tip while youHear the commercial travellers chew.You shuffle with their soups and beersWho held at heel the howling fears,You whose young limbs were proud to dareChallenge the black hosts of despair!
Poortrussed-up lad, what piteous guiseCloaks the late splendour of your eyes,Stiffens the fleetness of your faceInto a mask of sleek disgrace,And makes a smooth caricatureOf your taut body’s swift and surePoise, like a proud bird waiting oneMoment ere he taunt the sun;Your body that stood foolish-wiseStormed by the treasons of the skies,Star-like that hung, deliberateAbove the dubieties of Fate,But with an April gesture choseUnutterable and certain woes!And now you stand with discreet charmDropping the napkin round your arm,Anticipate your tip while youHear the commercial travellers chew.You shuffle with their soups and beersWho held at heel the howling fears,You whose young limbs were proud to dareChallenge the black hosts of despair!
Poortrussed-up lad, what piteous guiseCloaks the late splendour of your eyes,Stiffens the fleetness of your faceInto a mask of sleek disgrace,And makes a smooth caricatureOf your taut body’s swift and surePoise, like a proud bird waiting oneMoment ere he taunt the sun;Your body that stood foolish-wiseStormed by the treasons of the skies,Star-like that hung, deliberateAbove the dubieties of Fate,But with an April gesture choseUnutterable and certain woes!And now you stand with discreet charmDropping the napkin round your arm,Anticipate your tip while youHear the commercial travellers chew.You shuffle with their soups and beersWho held at heel the howling fears,You whose young limbs were proud to dareChallenge the black hosts of despair!