We drifted down the avenue that was our sweep of sea. And never man or mermaid any happier than we. We paused beside a paradise depicted on a sign; We moored fast to the margin of its crimson border line. We slipped our surf-filled sandals off, we waded to the knee, And when I felt like swooning John Paul Jones supported me. The darkness hesitated, fearing we might lose our way; We counted all the street lamps ’ere we homeward sought to stray. We counted corner lanterns, and the understanding stars Saw we were linked by longings for the shining shell-strewn bars. For the realms reserved for rovers, for the rafts and painted signs, And the right to moor to ring-heads in the far-off border lines. THE VACANT LOT They’re going to build a flathouse on the lot next door to me; And Roger Jones, the janitor’s boy, is mad as he can be. That lot was like a tropic isle, with weeds and rubbish fair, The rusty cans and coffee pots, that looked like Roger’s hair. ’Twas oft we strolled among the weeds, we were in love, you see, And Roger Jones was going to build a bungalow for me. We used to rest upon a rock just where the weeds were tall; We were engaged, I think, until the builders spoiled it all. But now they’ve ruined Roger’s plans, they’ve dug up all the lot; With all the brick and mortar round, you’d never know the spot. They came with carts and horses; tore our wilderness apart; No wonder Roger Jones was wild; it nearly broke _my_ heart. We could have done some wondrous things if time were not so slow; The weeds, they might have grown to trees, fit for a bungalow. With rusty cans and broken glass, we’d planned a home so nice; But they dumped their brick and mortar in our little paradise. They dumped their brick and mortar ’mid the smoky lakes of lime, Yet we won’t forget, ’twas Eden--Eden, once upon a time. Eden, where we dreamed supremely--rusty can and coffee pot; Eden, with the weeds and rubbish, in a vacant city lot. And now, we’re simply waiting, oh, that janitor’s boy and me, Until the janitor’s boy grows up and finds himself quite free To just discover areas where builders never go, Where we may live forever in a little bungalow. THE SWINGING STAIR From the flotsam of a city street we built the Swinging Stair, And latitude, or longitude, the least of all our care. A tilting board--an orange crate--the sparrows screamed with glee, As we swung to port and starboard like a lugger on the sea. We cruised without a compass, but with merchandise of worth, To barter pins and needles at the portals of the Earth. The helmsman was my hero brave, his hair as red could be; Perhaps he was the janitor’s boy, but he belonged to me; He was mine because I made him master of the Swinging Stair, And because I liked the color of his very auburn hair.