The lonely bridge cuts dark across the marsh Whose long pools glow with the light Of a flaring summer sunset. At this end limp bushes overhang, Palely reflected in the amber-colored water; Among them a constant banjo-twanging of frogs, And shrilling of toads and of insects Rises and falls in chorus rhythmic and stirring. Dark, with crumbling railing and planks, The bridge leads into the sunset. Across it many lonely figures, Their eyes a-flare with the sunset, Their faces glowing with its colors, Tramp past me through the evening. I am tired of sitting quiet Among the bushes of the shore, While the dark bridge stretches onward, And the long pools gleam with light; I am tired of the shrilling of insects And the croaking of frogs in the rushes, For the wild rice in the marsh-pools Waves its beckoning streamers in the wind, And the red sky-glory fades. SALVATION ARMY A drum pounds out the hymn, Loud with gaudy angels, tinsel cherubim, To drown the fanfare of the street, And with exultant lilting beat, To mingle the endless rumble of carts, The scrape of feet, the noise of marts And dinning market stalls, where women shout Their wares, and meat hangs out-- Grotesque, distorted by the gas flare's light-- Into one sacred rhythm for the Devil's spite. A woman's thin, raucous voice Carries the tune, bids men rejoice, Bathe in God's mercy, Draw near and learn salvation, see With their own eyes the mystery. Cymbals, at the hands of a tired girl, Slim wisp amid the swirl Of crowded streets, take up the tune, Monotonously importune. Faces are wan in the arc-light's livid glare; A wind gust carries the band's flare Of song, in noisy eddies echoing, Round lonely black street-corners, Till, with distance dimming, It fades away, Among the silent, dark array Of city houses where no soul stirs. The crowd thins, the players are alone; In their faith's raucous monotone, Loud with gaudy angels, tinsel cherubim, A drum pounds out the hymn. INCARNATION Incessantly the long rain falls, Slanting on black walls, Which glisten gold where a street lamp shines. In a shop-window, spangled in long lines, By rain-drops all a-glow, An Italian woman's face Flames into my soul as I go Hastily by in the turbulent darkness;-- An oval olive face, With the sweetly sullen grace Of the Virgin when first she sees, Amid her garden's silver lilies, The white-robed angel gleam, And softly, as by a sultry dream, Feels all her soul subdued unto the fire And radiance of her ecstasy. So in some picture, on which as on a lyre, An old Italian painter laboriously has played His soul away, his love, all his desire For fragrant things afar from earth, Shines the Madonna, as with a veil overlaid By incense-smoke and dust age-old, At whose feet, in time of dearth Or need, a myriad men have laid Their sorrows and arisen bold.