A Pushcart at the Curb. I
Printed in the United States of America
TO THE MEMORY
OF
WRIGHT McCORMICK
WHO TUMBLED OFF A MOUNTAIN
IN MEXICO

My verse is no upholstered chariot
Gliding oil-smooth on oiled wheels,
No swift and shining modern limousine,
But a pushcart, rather.

A crazy creaking pushcart, hard to push
Round corners, slung on shaky patchwork wheels,
That jolts and jumbles over the cobblestones
Its very various lading:

A lading of Spanish oranges, Smyrna figs,
Fly-specked apples, perhaps of the Hesperides,
Curious fruits of the Indies, pepper-sweet ...
Stranger, choose and taste.

Dolo

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

For permission to reprint certain of the poems in this volume, thanks are due
The Bookman, The Dial, Vanity Fair, The Measure, and The New York Evening Post.

CONTENTS

PAGE
WINTER IN CASTILE[13]
NIGHTS AT BASSANO[65]
VAGONES DE TERCERA[109]
QUAI DE LA TOURNELLE[139]
ON FOREIGN TRAVEL[163]
PHASES OF THE MOON[185]