BANK HOLIDAY
II
SEAS are roaring like a lion; with their
wavy flocks Zion,
Noses like a scimitar,
Hair a brassy bar
Come
To
The sun’s drum; through
Light green waters swim their daughters, lashing
with their eel-sleek-locks
The furred
Heads
Of mermaids that occurred,
Sinking to their cheap beds.
Blurred
Legs, like trunks of tropical
Plants, rise up and, over all,
Green as a conservatory,
Is the light ... another story....
It has grown too late for life:
Put on your gloves and take a drive!
SMALL TALK
I
UPON the noon Cassandra died
The harpy preened itself outside.
Bank Holiday put forth its glamour,
And in the wayside station’s clamour
We found the café at the rear,
And sat and drank our Pilsener beer.
Words smeared upon our wooden faces
Now paint them into queer grimaces;
The crackling greeneries that spirt
Like fireworks, mock our souls inert,
And we seem feathered like a bird
Among those shadows scarcely heard.