Just a prim blonde stranger In her early day, Hiding brilliant weapons, Too averse to play; Then she burst upon us Dancing through the night, Oh, her maiden radiance, Veils and roses white! With new powers, yet cautious, Not too smart or skilled, That first flash of dancing Wrought the thing she willed:-- Mobs of us made noble By her strong desire, By her white, uplifting Royal romance-fire. Though the tin piano Snarls its tango rude, Though the chairs are shaky And the drama's crude, Solemn are her motions, Stately are her wiles, Filling oafs with wisdom, Saving souls with smiles; Mid the restless actors She is rich and slow, She will stand like marble, She will pause and glow, Though the film is twitching Keep a peaceful reign, Ruler of her passion, Ruler of our pain! Girl, You Shall Mock No Longer You shall not hide forever, I shall your path discern; I have the key to Heaven, Key to the pits that burn. Saved ones will help me, lost ones Spy on your secret way-- Show me your flying footprints On past your death-bed day. If by your pride you stumble Down to the demon-land, I shall be there beside you, Chained to your burning hand. If, by your choice and pleasure, You shall ascend the sky, I, too, will mount that stairway, You shall not put me by. There, 'mid the holy people, Healed of your blasting scorn, Clasped in these arms that hunger, Splendid with dreams reborn, You shall be mastered, lady, Knowing, at last, Desire-- Lifting your face for kisses-- Kisses of bitter fire. The Amaranth Ah, in the night, all music haunts me here ... Is it for naught high Heaven cracks and yawns And the tremendous amaranth descends Sweet with glory of ten thousand dawns? Does it not mean my God would have me say:-- "Whether you will or no, oh city young Heaven will bloom like one great flower for you, Flash and loom greatly, all your marts among?" Friends I will not cease hoping, though you weep. Such things I see, and some of them shall come Though now our streets are harsh and ashen-grey, Though now our youths are strident, or are dumb. Friends, that sweet town, that wonder-town shall rise. Naught can delay it. Though it may not be Just as I dream, it comes at last, I know With streets like channels of an incense-sea! An Argument I. The voice of the man who is impatient with visions and Utopias. We find your soft Utopias as white As new-cut bread, as dull as life in cells, Oh scribes that dare forget how wild we are, How human breasts adore alarum bells.