HERE is the waving river line, and here
A rail-road made
(And here float lilies white as those that were
Where Marsyas played.)
The thrilling sky is wild with wingéd planes
For air ship raid
(Yet—still steals up the hidden cirrus lanes
The Huntress Maid!)
The country road is gashed with lurid signs
Of commerce-gods:
(Yet bitter-sweet and seeding eglantines
Hang votive pods!)
The man who walks in front of me to work
Has pointed ears
(He speaks with modern emphasis and jerk
So it appears)—
But where he toils the chimneys range their pipes
In Syrinx form
(Who knows what midnight Dancing? or what types
Of dancers swarm?)
Ah! life is practical, the Moderns say
“No one escapes—— ”
(Ye Gods, Who is that smiling such a way
Among the grapes?)
HOME-SICK
HE sees the white moon climb the city skies,
Far over rank, black roofs and balconies,
And with her spectral radiance anoint
The slender lance of every steeple point.
Beneath his gaze, the brilliant streets converge,
And through the avenues the people surge.
Behind him are his walls where, numb and old
His books and pictures seem aloof and cold.
Below, he hears the gong and shout and call;
Sees the blank grief of many a plastered wall,
And bows himself upon the window sill,
In a communion motionless and still.