Spring Sunday … In a Small Town
To-day they're having Church Parade;
The Boy Scouts and the Girl Guides,
The Cubs and the Brownies,
Are all out, full force.
The uncertain, fumbling band begins a staggering march
And off they go, curling in a snaky line
Round the corner from the Market Square,
Under the old town clock.
All the people in town
Seem to have hurried down to one spot
To see their "young hopefuls" swinging past.
They don't march any too well, either,
But that isn't noticed.
There they go up the steps of the old gray church
And in at the door.
There isn't any need for tears pushing up to the surface
But they do!
The peace of it!
The ironic, terrible sense of security,
The threat under the dream!
Let the band play,
Let the children march,
Let the parents weep!
Ghost of New Year's Eve
A dear ghost, a young ghost
Walks this night,
Clad not in holy mail
Robed not in white.
Nothing like a halo
Round his brown head,
Laughter on his young lips,
Whimsical and red.
Wearing old flannel slacks, jacket sleeve torn,
"Sneakers" on his swift feet,
Scuffed and well-worn.
A dear ghost, a young ghost,
Sketch-book in hand,
Pockets full of charcoal …
Militant you stand,
Lip caught between teeth
Beautiful and white,
Eyes full of shining dreams
On this night.
A dear ghost, a young ghost
Walks this eve,
If he finds you paintable
He will touch your sleeve,