Wright grinned.
"If I am to be the Angel in this affair," he said, "how could I employ celestial qualities better than to boost my friends—and incidentally, myself? We can collect your poems, publish them in a sufficiently bizarre edition to attract attention—and, without letting Mr. John Denton's solid and conservative firm into the secret—you can astonish your husband, by Christmas, say, with a book of your own."
"But," I argued, "they're not good enough—"
"They're good enough for me," said Wright magnificently, "and it will be rather fun, having a business of this sort to play with. It's one way of revenging myself on those beastly tin-pans."
I grew just a little excited, picturing Bill's astonishment. And I would not be there to hear his criticism. I had a dozen verses or more which Wright had not yet seen: the best, I thought, of all. And, of the poems I had styled "Cuban Pastels," the two he had just spoken of headed the group.
1
Havana Harbor
Hued as a peacock's plumage, wide unfurled,
The sea dreams, smiling. Far off, toylike, frail
A boat drifts to the blue edge of the world,
The brilliant sunlight glinting from it's sail.
An idle cruiser, sinister and grey,
Drifts, out of tune with sunlight and with dreams,
While, on the city-wall, the rainbow-spray
Scatters to crystal, shot with opal gleams.
The shore curves tender as a clasping arm—
Like cardboard structures from a clever hand,
Bright in the sun, and touched with old-world charm,
Unreal, the ragged lines of houses stand.
Dim with the Past, a fortress close-guards yet
A city whose once-fettered feet are free,
To wear, serene as some white-limbed coquette,
The gold-and-sapphire anklet of the Sea.
2
Morro Castle
An old fortress, wrapped in magic sleep,
The city's crouching watchdog, fronts the sea,
And locks stone lips on tales of dungeon-keep;
On legends of dead terrors, buried deep;
And gives no hint of once-screamed, strangled plea,
Choked to swift silence in the torture cell,
In ages dark with bloody sweat of pain....
Ah! if the Morro ghosts could walk again,
What whispered horror could those bruised throats tell,
Wrung by the cruel, long hands of Ancient Spain!