Down the road to Avignon,The long,long road to Avignon,Across the bridge to Avignon,One morning in the spring.
New York at Night A near horizon whose sharp jags Cut brutally into a sky Of leaden heaviness,and crags Of houses lift their masonry Ugly and foul,and chimneys lie And snort,outlined against the gray Of lowhung cloud.I hear the sigh The goaded city gives,not day Nor night can ease her heart,her anguished labours stay.
Below,straight streets,monotonous,From north and south,from east and west,Stretch glittering;and luminous Above,one tower tops the rest And holds aloft man's constant quest:
Time!Joyless emblem of the greed Of millions,robber of the best Which earth can give,the vulgar creed Has seared upon the night its flaming ruthless screed.
O Night!Whose soothing presence brings The quiet shining of the stars.
O Night!Whose cloak of darkness clings So intimately close that scars Are hid from our own eyes.Beggars By day,our wealth is having night To burn our souls before altars Dim and tree-shadowed,where the light Is shed from a young moon,mysteriously bright.
Where art thou hiding,where thy peace?
This is the hour,but thou art not.
Will waking tumult never cease?
Hast thou thy votary forgot?
Nature forsakes this man-begot And festering wilderness,and now The long still hours are here,no jot Of dear communing do I know;Instead the glaring,man-filled city groans below!
A Fairy Tale On winter nights beside the nursery fire We read the fairy tale,while glowing coals Builded its pictures.There before our eyes We saw the vaulted hall of traceried stone Uprear itself,the distant ceiling hung With pendent stalactites like frozen vines;And all along the walls at intervals,Curled upwards into pillars,roses climbed,And ramped and were confined,and clustered leaves Divided where there peered a laughing face.
The foliage seemed to rustle in the wind,A silent murmur,carved in still,gray stone.
High pointed windows pierced the southern wall Whence proud escutcheons flung prismatic fires To stain the tessellated marble floor With pools of red,and quivering green,and blue;And in the shade beyond the further door,Its sober squares of black and white were hid Beneath a restless,shuffling,wide-eyed mob Of lackeys and retainers come to view The Christening.
A sudden blare of trumpets,and the throng About the entrance parted as the guests Filed singly in with rare and precious gifts.
Our eager fancies noted all they brought,The glorious,unattainable delights!
But always there was one unbidden guest Who cursed the child and left it bitterness.
The fire falls asunder,all is changed,I am no more a child,and what I see Is not a fairy tale,but life,my life.
The gifts are there,the many pleasant things:
Health,wealth,long-settled friendships,with a name Which honors all who bear it,and the power Of making words obedient.This is much;But overshadowing all is still the curse,That never shall I be fulfilled by love!
Along the parching highroad of the world No other soul shall bear mine company.
Always shall I be teased with semblances,With cruel impostures,which I trust awhile Then dash to pieces,as a careless boy Flings a kaleidoscope,which shattering Strews all the ground about with coloured sherds.
So I behold my visions on the ground No longer radiant,an ignoble heap Of broken,dusty glass.And so,unlit,Even by hope or faith,my dragging steps Force me forever through the passing days.
Crowned You came to me bearing bright roses,Red like the wine of your heart;You twisted them into a garland To set me aside from the mart.
Red roses to crown me your lover,And I walked aureoled and apart.
Enslaved and encircled,I bore it,Proud token of my gift to you.
The petals waned paler,and shriveled,And dropped;and the thorns started through.
Bitter thorns to proclaim me your lover,A diadem woven with rue.
To Elizabeth Ward Perkins Dear Bessie,would my tired rhyme Had force to rise from apathy,And shaking off its lethargy Ring word-tones like a Christmas chime.
