Back on the curving beach I stood again, Facing the bath-house, when a group of men, Stumbling beneath some sort of weight, went by. I could not see the hidden thing they carried; I only heard: “He never gave a cry”— “Who’s going to tell her?”—“Yes, and they just married”— “Such a good swimmer, too.” ... And then they passed; Leaving the silence throbbing and aghast. A moment there my buoyant heart hung slack, And then the glad, barbaric blood came back Singing a livelier tune; and in my pulse Beat the great wave that surges and exults.... Why I was there and whither I must go I did not care. Enough for me to know The same unresting struggle and the glowing Beauty of spendthrift hours, bravely showing Life, an adventure perilous and gay; And Death, a long and vivid holiday. HANDS Strange, how this smooth and supple joint can be Put to so many purposes. It checks And rears the monsters of machinery And shapes the idle gallantries of sex. Those hands that light the fuse and dig the trap, Fingers that spin the earth or plunge through shame— And yours, that lie so lightly in your lap, Are only blood and dust—all are the same. What mastery directs them through the world And gives these delicate bones so great a power? You drop your head. You sleep. Your hands are curled Loosely, like some half-opened, perfumed flower. An hour ago they burned in mine and sent Armies with banners charging through my veins. Now they are cool and white; they rest content, Curved in a smile. The mystery remains. A SIDE STREET On the warm Sunday afternoons And every evening in the Spring and Summer When the night hurries the late home-comer And the air grows softer, and scraps of tunes Float from the open windows and jar Against the voices of children and the hum of a car; When the city noises commingle and melt With a restless something half-seen, half-felt— I see them always there, Upon the low, smooth wall before the church; That row of little girls who sit and stare Like sparrows on a granite perch. They come in twittering couples or walk alone To their gray bough of stone, Sometimes by twos and threes, sometimes as many as five— But always they sit there on the narrow coping Bright-eyed and solemn, scarcely hoping To see more than what is merely moving and alive.... They hear the couples pass; the lisp of happy feet Increases and the night grows suddenly sweet....