SILVER-BADGED WAITER
Poor trussed-up lad, what piteous guise
Cloaks the late splendour of your eyes,
Stiffens the fleetness of your face
Into a mask of sleek disgrace,
And makes a smooth caricature
Of your taut body's swift and sure
Poise, like a proud bird waiting one
Moment ere he taunt the sun;
Your body that stood foolish-wise
Stormed by the treasons of the skies,
Star-like that hung, deliberate
Above the dubieties of Fate,
But with an April gesture chose
Unutterable and certain woes!
And now you stand with discreet charm
Dropping the napkin round your arm,
Anticipate your tip while you
Hear the commercial travellers chew.
You shuffle with their soups and beers
Who held at heel the howling fears,
You whose young limbs were proud to dare
Challenge the black hosts of despair!
SUNSET OVER SUBURB
(For Neville Whymant)
The sun setting down the suburb holds
Impermanent crimsons and elusive golds.
See the false banners! folds on magic folds
Sway down deluded streets!
Refuse and ruin now most featly kissed
By lips flushed amethyst!
The walls are shimmered with a vaporous dusk,
A glamour glooms
The sorrowful pale husk
With rich twilight of witchcraft blooms.
Ah! spurious wizardry that flows and fleets
Where sword-gems flash and melt in a moon-mist!
The roofs so ashen-dark of old
Flare down the streets like lifted brands,
Flare like the burning arc of sands
Where the recurrent seas have rolled
Long breakers molten from astounding gold
The chimneys which all day
Scowling have stood
Against the devouring mills,
Boding no thought of good
For whoso came that way—
Lo now! from evil thought
Soaring through steeps of fire their brows are caught.
Columnar topaz in this time of shrift,
Their tall heads lift
Among the bases of celestial hills.