For a moment there’s the glitter of their wings ... Just a moment ... then the sunbeam melts away And the happy brightness of the turquoise sky Has faded, like their silver wings, to grey. TO-- Glorious love, if the passion were thine, To thee I would open my heart and myself; Yours is the spirit to whom I’d resign, Yours are the arms I would rest in, in sleep. Yours is the face I would look to for help, Yours are the hopes that would buoy me, until After our labors had won, or had failed, Yours are the thoughts that would guide me on still. FRAGMENT Glorious Virgin, thine the light ... The spark-fire of maternal love ... Of thine own self, hast thou made A Living God, thy Monument. TO MARIE Such a dainty little miss Is Marie, Whom I love to pet and kiss ... Sweet Marie! Auburn hair in sunny wave, Freckled face, now sad, now grave ... Would you teach me to behave ... Dear Marie? You’ve culled learning from deep books Fair Marie, A Phi Beta ... and such looks! Oh Marie! That you set my heart a-flutter, Not the wise words that you utter ... It’s your charm that makes me stutter ... My Marie! But though lyrics I indite you, Fair Marie, Ardent love letters I write you, Still Marie, You prefer to let me pine, dear, Lonely hours have been mine, dear. Oh your art is superfine, dear, Dear Marie! But I never give up hope, Of Marie, Liberally I hand soft soap To Marie ... For I know when I grow older, And my beaux affairs grow bolder ... By her tactics, I’ll be colder Than Marie! FREUDIANISMS Then the fish all turn into girls, and the shimmery tale of the goldfish-in-chief changes into dance slippers. Soon her voice begins to call to you. It grows louder and louder. At last you realized that she is saying-- “Eight o’clock--time to get up!” You heave a sleepy sigh and look at the clock. It says “eight o’clock” but it is probably fast. You turn over and try to remember that dream about goldfish. Or was it girls? Girls or goldfish? Goldfish or girls? They both begin with “g”. Queer, “g.” Stands for “goloshes” and “grapes” and “gloves” and-- “Ten minutes past eight.” “All right,” you drone dutifully. (But you know it isn’t all right). You turn on your back and stare at the ceiling. There is no use in getting up yet. You would spend so much time just dressing and undressing. Think of the hours people spend in clothing themselves. If all those minutes were laid end to end they would probably reach from their elbows to-- And then the door bell rings, and someone says something about mail. Mail! That’s different. In a minute you are up and rushing into the hall-way. “Mail!” THE OLD MAN SPEAKS