Chilled into a serenity As rigid as your pose You linger trustingly, But a gutter waits for you. Your elegance does not secure You favors with the sun. He is not one to pity fragileness. He thinks all cheeks should burn And feel how tears can run. FOUR WALLS Four great walls have hemmed me in. Four strong, high walls: Right and wrong, Shall and shan’t. The mighty pillars tremble when My conscience palls And sings its song-- I can, I can’t. If for a moment Samson’s strength Were given me I’d shove Them away from where I stand; Free, I know I’d love To ramble soul and all, And never dread to strike a wall. Again, I wonder would that be Such a happy state for me ... The going, being, doing, sham-- And never knowing where I am. I might not love freedom at all; My tired wings might crave a wall-- Four walls to rise and pen me in This conscious world with guarded men. FRANK HORNE “Born in New York City, August 18, 1899, I have lived all but about six years in Brooklyn. I studied at the College of the City of New York, and was guilty there of my first sonnet; but am ever so much more proud of my varsity letters won on the track--once ran a “10 flat” hundred and a 51 sec. quarter. Went to the Northern Illinois College of Ophthalmology--took degree “Doctor of Optometry.” Have practiced in Chicago and New York. At present writing, am doing some teaching and publicity work at the Fort Valley High and Industrial School, Georgia, while recovering from a mean illness. Have had a hankering to write as long as I can remember, but Charles Johnson, Editor of _Opportunity_ and a certain Gwendolyn Bennett are responsible for my trying it openly. My “published works” are limited to the indulgence of _Opportunity_, _The Crisis_, and _Braithwaite’s Anthology_. It is the perversity of my nature to crave the ability to write good prose, and yet my attempts at poetry are the only things to which any notice is given.” ON SEEING TWO BROWN BOYS IN A CATHOLIC CHURCH It is fitting that you be here Little brown boys With Christ-like eyes And curling hair. Look you on yon crucifix Where He hangs nailed and pierced With head hung low And eyes a’blind with blood that drips From a thorny crown ... Look you well, You shall know this thing. Judas’ kiss will burn your cheek And you shall be denied By your Peter--And Gethsemane ... You shall know full well Gethsemane ... You, too, will suffer under Pontius Pilate And feel the rugged cut of rough hewn cross Upon your surging shoulder-- They will spit in your face And laugh ... They will nail you up twixt thieves And gamble for your little garments. And in this you will exceed God For on this earth You shall know Hell-- O little brown boys With Christ-like eyes And curling hair It is fitting that you be here. TO A PERSISTENT PHANTOM I buried you deeper last night You with your tears And your tangled hair You with your lips That kissed so fair I buried you deeper last night.