E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) A PUSHCART AT THE CURB by JOHN DOS PASSOS * * * * * _Books by John Dos Passos_ _NOVELS:_ _Three Soldiers_ _One Man's Initiation_ _Streets of Night_ _(In Preparation)_ _ESSAYS:_ _Rosinante to the Road Again_ _POEMS:_ _A Pushcart at the Curb_ * * * * * A PUSHCART AT THE CURB by JOHN DOS PASSOS [Decorative Illustration] George H. Doran Company Publishers New York Copyright, 1922, By George H. Doran Company [Decorative Illustration] _A Pushcart at the Curb. I_ Printed in the United States of America TO THE MEMORY OF WRIGHT McCORMICK WHO TUMBLED OFF A MOUNTAIN IN MEXICO My verse is no upholstered chariot Gliding oil-smooth on oiled wheels, No swift and shining modern limousine, But a pushcart, rather. A crazy creaking pushcart, hard to push Round corners, slung on shaky patchwork wheels, That jolts and jumbles over the cobblestones Its very various lading: A lading of Spanish oranges, Smyrna figs, Fly-specked apples, perhaps of the Hesperides, Curious fruits of the Indies, pepper-sweet ... Stranger, choose and taste. _Dolo_ ACKNOWLEDGMENT For permission to reprint certain of the poems in this volume, thanks are due _The Bookman_, _The Dial_, _Vanity Fair_, _The Measure_, and _The New York Evening Post_. CONTENTS PAGE WINTER IN CASTILE 13 NIGHTS AT BASSANO 65 VAGONES DE TERCERA 109 QUAI DE LA TOURNELLE 139 ON FOREIGN TRAVEL 163 PHASES OF THE MOON 185 WINTER IN CASTILE The promiscuous wind wafts idly from the quays A smell of ships and curious woods and casks And a sweetness from the gorse on the flowerstand And brushes with his cool careless cheek the cheeks Of those on the street; mine, an old gnarled man's, The powdered cheeks of the girl who with faded eyes Stands in the shadow; a sailor's scarred brown cheeks, And a little child's, who walks along whispering To her sufficient self. O promiscuous wind. _Bordeaux_ I A long grey street with balconies. Above the gingercolored grocer's shop trail pink geraniums and further up a striped mattress hangs from a window and the little wooden cage of a goldfinch. Four blind men wabble down the street with careful steps on the rounded cobbles scraping with violin and flute the interment of a tune. People gather: women with market-baskets stuffed with green vegetables, men with blankets on their shoulders and brown sunwrinkled faces.