ts,
Are contented as house-flies
Dozing against the wall.
But you,
Imprisoned in the forties,
Delirious, frenzied, helpless,
Are a fly, drowning in a cocktail!

Two Commentaries

I. TO AN ACTOR

You are a gilded card-case
Which I took for a purse.
Your spirit's coin was squandered long ago,
And in its place
Are white cards, all alike,
Bearing a word,
A name,
Connoting nothing.

2. PHILOSOPHER TO ARTIST

You are a raisin, but I am a nut!
What meat there is to you
Can be seen at a glance--
(Seeds, when they exist, are bitter)
My calm, round glossiness,
(For I am sound and free
From wormy restlessness of spirit)
Defies your casual inspection.

It takes sharp teeth
And some determination
To taste my kernel!

A Womanly Woman

You sit, a snug, warm kitten
Blinking through the window
At a storm-haunted world--

Sleet wind caterwauls
Through icy trees,
Which clack their hands at you
Tauntingly.

Why should you leave
Radiator and rubber-plant?
Do people stand at attention to mourn a hero
When they behold
A frozen kitten
In a gutter?

Lolita Now Is Old

Lolita now is old,
She sits in the park, watching the young men pass
And huddles her shawl against the cold.

One night last summer when the moon was red,
Lolita, hearing an old song sung
And amorous laughter down the street
Left her bed--
Lolita thought she was young.

With ancient finery on her back,
A lace mantilla hiding her grey head,
She crept into the warm and alien night.

Her trembling knees remembered the languid pace
Of beauty on adventure bent--her fan
Waved challenges with unforgotten grace.
Cunningly she played her part
For to her peering age
Love was a well-remembered art.

Footsteps followed her--footsteps drew near!
She dropped a rose--hush, he is here!
There came hard arms and a panting kiss--

He felt the fraud of those withered lips,
He cursed and spat--"Was it for this,
You came, old woman, to the park?"
Lolita gathered skirts and fled
Through the dim dark.

Lolita huddles her shawl against the cold,
She sits and mumbles by the fire. In truth
Lolita knows she is old.

The Shining Bird

A bird is three things:
Feathers, flight and song,
And feathers are the least of these.

At last I hold her in my hands
The shining bird whose flight along