And me, a maiden mendicant may ask an alms, forsooth, As one who missed the rubrics in the litanies of youth. THE COMMONPLACE By the steps of the paper-box factory, Or the gates where the Seraphim nod, In the time and the place that’s appointed, You will meet with your commonplace god. And then you’ll be glad and forever, For the queens of the East and the West, With the sets of the Garden of Eden Have failed in a commonplace quest. So to you who have dreamed in the starlight, And to you who have drudged in the town, And to you of the commonplace vision, With the beauty the Greeks handed down, Doubt not that the time is appointed, That the chart with a quester is girt, But remember that star-dust is star-dust And ranks not the commonest dirt; That the gods of Olympus were beggars Or ever they burned to create, And that rags ripple down into samite For a Venus who swings on a gate; That the steps of the paper-box factory, As well as the gardens of kings, Are only the blue-print devices Of love, and the commonplace things. BERKLEY COMMON Summer broods o’er Berkley Common, o’er the fields of everlasting, And around the common cluster homes no one would ever rent; The people that once lived there, long have gone to other places, Dusty heirlooms in the garrets give a clue to where they went. Like a manuscript, all yellow, and with many things deleted, Yet a manuscript completed, with embellishments most rare, Berkley Common lies forgotten, with its fields of everlasting, And the sunlight on the windows of the empty houses there. It is off the line of travel; to the present unrelated; Only peddlers down from Dighton go that way to Taunton Weir; They haste by Berkley Common, by the fields of everlasting, For the empty houses fill them with a feeling like to fear. CHOICE Cloud-made mountains towered, Beckoning to me; Visionary triremes Talked about the sea.... There were strings of camels On the Tunis sands.... There were certain cities Holding out their hands.... Mine the choice that fettered Lips to fountain brim; Timed the droning transits-- Bees in gardens dim. Thus I pay no tribute, Heed no tallier’s call; Only sound of kisses From a waterfall. Only honey dripping In a hollow tree; First of hour glasses Keeping time for me. Only broken whispers, Tracing themes unsaid; Soft as tread of visions O’er a poppy bed.... THE FIRE VASE Said the potter to the flower pots: “It’s a question of design-- Must I hold my hands forever from the images divine?” He ran a royal pattern and he shaped a wondrous vase, From the peach-bloom drew his color, from the rose-blend drew his glaze. Came collectors of ceramics, connoisseurs who stayed to yearn; Something wonderful was hidden ’neath the cover of that urn.