SPRING-SONG
Early some morning in May-time I shall awaken When the breeze blowing in at the window Shall bathe me With the delicate scents Of the blossoms of apples, Filling my room with their coolness And beauty and fragrance— As of old, as of old, When your spirit dwelt with me, My heart shall be pure As the heart that you gave me.
A SWEETHEART: THOMPSON STREET
Queen of all streets, Fifth Avenue Stretches her slender limbs From the great Arch of Triumph, on,— On, where the distance dims
The splendors of her jewelled robes, Her granite draperies; The magic, sunset-smitten walls That veil her marble knees;
For ninety squares she lies a queen, Superb, bare, unashamed, Yielding her beauty scornfully To worshippers unnamed.
But at her feet her sister glows, A daughter of the South: Squalid, immeasurably mean,— But oh! her hot, sweet mouth!
My Thompson Street! a Tuscan girl, Hot with life's wildest blood; Her black shawl on her black, black hair, Her brown feet stained with mud;
A scarlet blossom at her lips, A new babe at her breast; A singer at a wine-shop door, (Her lover unconfessed).