XII—IN AN OLD-TIME TAVERN BOOTH
To Ben De Casseres
Drinking, I doze, and see the gods go by;
They wave to me the hand of comradeship,
For I am one with them, and at my lip
The cup of wisdom bubbles ... up the sky
A blur of moondust drifts to dull mine eye,
But through the veil my romping visions slip
To dance among the careless stars, outstrip
The racing planets where they swoop and fly,
And then . . . from somewhere east of Mars
a keen
Thin wind whines for a Dime; I drop one in
A sad Salvation Army tambourine
And hear a weary homily on Sin . . .
“Sister,” I say, “you're right, and yet the Truth
Sometimes sits near me in this tavern booth.”
XIII—THE OLD BRASS RAILING
To Charley Still
Our minds are schooled to grief and dearth,
Our lips, too, are aware,
But our feet still seek a railing
When a railing isn't there.
I went into a druggist's shop
To get some stamps and soap,—
My feet rose up in spite of me
And pawed the air with hope.
I know that neither East nor West,
And neither North nor South,
Shall rise a cloud of joy to shed
Its dampness on my drouth,—.
I know that neither here nor there,
When winds blow to and fro,
Shall any friendly odours find
The nose they used to know,—
