To the Violinist

(Mr. Bodenheim writes of the violinist described in our last issue.)

Pits a trillion times blacker than black,

Fringed with little black grasses, each holding

The jerking, smoldering ghost of a thought.

(O deep-aged pupils and lashes!)

At the bottom of the pits lay the phosphorescent bones,

Of many souls that have cried and died.

I think you clutched one of your soul-bones with irreverent hands,

And struck your cringing violin.

A dwindling gift are you, laughter.

Old men have I seen, counterfeiting you on street-corners.

Never shall I join them,

For not in scorn do I laugh, but in praise.

Only with my smiles am I lavish;

A different smile for each thought have I.

(O thousands of smiles waiting for the labor of birth!)

To my death-bed will come the wildest smile:

It will be moon-paint on a colorless house.