But chirruping of marriageable girls
voices of eager, wise virgins,
no lamp unlit every wick well trimmed,
fill the pinkish parlor chairs,
bobbing hats and shrill tinkling teacups
in circle after circle about you
so that I can no longer see your eyes.
Shall I tear down the pinkish curtains
smash the imitation ivory keyboard
that you may pluck with bare fingers on the strings?
I sit cramped in my chair.
Futility tumbles everlastingly
like great flabby snowflakes about me.
Were they in your eyes, or mine
the tattered mists about the mountains
and the pitiless grey sea?
1919
ON FOREIGN TRAVEL
I
Grey riverbanks in the dusk
Melting away into mist
A hard breeze sharp off the sea
The ship's screws lunge and throb
And the voices of sailors singing.
O I have come wandering
Out of the dust of many lands
Ears by all tongues jangled
Feet worn by all arduous ways—
O the voices of sailors singing.