MOONS WE SAW AT SEVENTEEN

August casts her burning spell:
One vast sapphire is the sky;
Woods still have their musky smell,
By the pool the dragon fly
Like a jewelled scarf-pin glows.
Doris, Vera, and Kathleen—
Where are they? and where are those
Moons we saw at seventeen?
Bright as amber, and as round
As a new engagement ring—
(So we murmured, gently bound
To some flapper's leading string.)
Sweet and witless repartee:
Perilous canoes careen—
Telescopes would split, to see
MOONS we saw at seventeen!

AT THE DOG SHOW

To an Irish Wolf Hound

Long and grey and gaunt he lies,
A Lincoln among dogs; his eyes,
Deep and clear of sight, appraise
The meaningless and shuffling ways
Of human folk that stop to stare.
One witless woman seeing there
How tired, how contemptuous
He is of all the smell and fuss
Asks him, "Poor fellow, are you sick?"
Yea, sick, and weary to the quick
Of heat and noise from dawn to dark.
He will not even stoop to bark
His protest, like the lesser bred.
Would he might know, one gazer read
The wistful longing in his face,
The thirst for wind and open space
And stretch of limbs to him begrudged.
There came a little, dapper, fat
And bustling man, with cane and spat
And pearl-grey vest and derby hat—
Such were the judger and the judged!

THE OLD SWIMMER

I often wander on the beach
Where once, so brown of limb,
The biting air, the roaring surf
Summoned me to swim.
I see my old abundant youth
Where combers lean and spill,
And though I taste the foam no more
Other swimmers will.
Oh, good exultant strength to meet
The arching wall of green,
To break the crystal, swirl, emerge
Dripping, taut, and clean.
To climb the moving hilly blue,
To dive in ecstasy
And feel the salty chill embrace
Arm and rib and knee.
What brave and vanished laughter then
And tingling thighs to run,
What warm and comfortable sands
Dreaming in the sun.
The crumbling water spreads in snow,
The surf is hissing still,
And though I kiss the salt no more
Other swimmers will.